Flowers for children / by L. Maria Child

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FLOWERS FOB. CHILDREN,

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George and his Dog, — Page 71.

FLOWER 3

F © IS 0 1 1 L 1 1 II

BY L, MARIA CHILD

Publiahed by C S Franois k Co , New York,

FLOWERS

CHILDREN

L. MARIA CHILD,

author of "letters from new york;" " philothea ]

"fact and fiction;" "biographies of

good wives ;" etc. etc.

NEW YORK:
C. S. FRANCIS &CO.,252 BROADWAY
BOSTON:

J.H. FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON STREET.

1854.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by

C. S. FRANCIS & CO.

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District

of New-York.

Jordan
1854*

PBINTED BT

MUNBOE & FRANCIS.

Boston

CONTENTS.

3Mrt £>

TO PARENTS

THE CHRIST-CHTLD AND THE POOR CHILDREN

THE NEW-YORK BOY'S SONG -

MANIKINS, OR LITTLE MEN

GEORGE AND HIS DOG ....

THE SQUIRREL AND HER LITTLE ONES

THE YOUNG ARTIST ....

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS -

THE PRESENT : A DRAMA

THE INDOLENT FAIRY

LITTLE BIRD! LITTLE BIRD! -

DEAF AND DUMB -

LOUISA PRESTON

LIFE IN THE OCEAN -

THE SISTERS' HYMN ....

«

7

9

49

53

70

73

79

103

126

130

139

141

145

169

188

tyaxt Kfi

GOOD LITTLE MARY -

THE SAUCY LITTLE SQUIRREL

THE VISIT ....

THE NEW-ENGLAND BOY'S SONG

THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL

LITTLE RUNAWAYS

ROBINS ....

THE SPRING BIRDS -

LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY

LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB

VI

CONTEXTS.

LITTLE FRANCIS ....

THE AUTUMN BIRD

HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE

THE DONKEY

THE SAILOR'S DOG ....

FATHER IS COMING -

ANNA AND HER KITTEN

THE HOUSE OF LITTLE TOM THUMB

THE UNLUCKY DAY -

THE HEN AND HER DUCKS

THE LITTLE GLUTTON

THE TWINS

THE PARROT .....

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

THE LITTLE WHITE LAMB AND THE LITTLE

BLACK LAMB

MAY-DAY

LITTLE JANE - •

MY SISTER MARY

DISCONTENTED DORA ....

LITTLE EMMA

THE YOUNG TRAVELLER
GERTRUDE AND HER BTRDS
OUR PLAY THINGS -

73
75

80
85
91
93
95
98
106
112
115
121
127

132
135
141
140
148
153
161
167
'177

lastt o*.

MAKING SOMETHING - 9

THE TULIPS AND THE LADIES' DELIGHT - 45

LINES TO ANNETTE 49

MUSICAL CHILDREN 52

A DREAM 94

WILLIAM BURTON, THE BOY WHO WOULD BE

A SAILOR 97

AUNT MARIA'S SWALLOWS .... 144

LARIBOO : SKETCHES OF LIFE IN THE DESERT 154

TO PARENTS.

Several years ago, I published a little pe-
riodical called The Juvenile Miscellany It
found favour in the eyes of parents and chil-
dren; and since it has been out of print, I
have had frequent requests to republish it.
1 did not think it advisable to do this. But
I have concluded to publish a series of small
books, under the title of Flowers for Children.
About half of each of these volumes will con-
sist of new articles written expressly for the
occasion ; and the other half will be a selection
of what seem to me the best of my own
articles, formerly published in the Juvenile
Miscellany. Upon reviewing the work for
this purpose, I find that my maturer judg-
ment rejects some inaccuracies, some moral
inferences, and many imperfections of style.

Vlll DEDICATION.

I have therefore carefully re-written all the
articles used in the present selection.

The story of the Christ- Child and the Poor
Children was suggested by the account of the
Redemption Institute at Hamburg, by Horace
Mann, in his late admirable Report on Edu-
cation. It would be well for all parents, teach-
ers, and magistrates, to read that account, and
receive deeply into their hearts the lesson it
conveys.

L. M. C.

THIS BOOK

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO

LITTLE JOHN.

FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN.

3Mrt £.

THE CHRIST-CHILD

AND THE POOR CHILDREN

einrich Ludwig lived in a
narrow dirty court in the
city of Hamburgh, in Ger-
many. The sun never came
there, and no green tree
was to be seen. It is a
great evil to spend child-
hood in such a dismal home ; but all over
the world there are thousands of poor chil-
dren, who never see the beautiful things
which God made for all creatures to enjoy.
Poor little Heinrich ! his father was a drunk-
ard ; and sickness and trouble had so chang-
ed his mother, that she was sometimes stupid
and crazy. At such times, she would sit
with her head leaning on her hands all the
life-long day, and no one could get a word
from her. Little Heinrich did not know

10 THE CHRIST-CHILD

what to think of his mother when she had
these fits. When he first began to walk
alone, he would tottle up to her, and pull
her ragged gown, and stoop doWn to peep
up in her face, and try all manner of baby
ways to attract her attention. But she look-
ed at hirn with strange eyes, for she did not
know him ; and if he continued to pull at
her gown, and call " Mammy, mammy," she
would sometimes push him, so that he fell
backward on the floor. The poor child had
nothing to do all day, but to tumble about
among bad boys in a dirty court, and dig
holes in the mud. If he heard his fathers
voice, he would run and hide himself; for he
almost always came home drunk, and would
beat the little boy, if he happened to be in
the humour. It was a sad sight to see poor
little Heinrich at nightfall, with his father
drunk on the floor, and his mother^ staring
stupidly into the air, without sense enough
to know that her child was suffering. If he
could find a cold potatoe, or a crust of bread,
he would munch it like a hungry dog, take
a sup of water from his little battered por-
ringer, untie his ragged frock, as well as he
could with such very small fingers, and creep
into the little heap of rags that he called his
bed.

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 11

But Heinrich had some blessings. He
was a healthy little thing, with a loving and
nappy disposition. His mother was very
kind-hearted, and when she was not crazy,
she treated her little boy with great affec-
tion. Often would she lie down beside him
when he went to his little bed, and hold his
hand in hers, and wet his bright hair with
her tears. Alas, for the fond mother! she
often went hungry herself, that the little one
might have a scanty supper. The thought
often came over her, " What does my poor
boy do when the fits are on me, when he has
no one to care for him ? " This would make
her weep bitterly. And so the little Hein
rich seldom saw the sunshine or a smiling
face. He heard cursing and swearing, but
never the warbling of birds, or the ringing
laughter of the innocent and happy. He
learned of his mother the habit of sighing,
and would look into her eyes with such a
sad expression, that it made the heart ache.
But when he was two years old, a little sister
was born to him ; and this little sister be-
came the blessing of his young life. She
was very beautiful, with her golden hair,
and her large blue eyes, so sad and gentle.
After she came, like a sunbeam, into that
dark and miserable home, the mother's health

12 THE CHRIST-CHILD

improved, and she had her fits more seldom.
When they did come over her, it was heart-
touching to see how that little brother per-
formed a mother's part. He would wash
his sister's face, and comb her silky hair with
a fragment of wooden comb, and every but-
ton and bright thing he could find, he would
string together for her amusement. When
she needed more help than he could give, he
would summon an old woman in the neigh-
bourhood, who, though feeble and tottering,
never refused to come when little Heinrich
took hold of her apron, with one of his plead-
ing looks. It was a beautiful sight to see
the lovely children asleep in each others'
arms, on their little heap of rags. They
seemed like two little angels that had lost
their way, and accidentally fallen asleep in
that dismal court. Even the drunken father
felt the tears in his eyes when he gazed upon
them, and sometimes for a week after did
not taste a drop of intoxicating liquor.

It was indeed a blessing to Heinrich that
he had little Gertrude to play with ; for he
seldom wanted to be out of doors with the
bad boys. They were rough and cruel, but
Gertrude, with her sweet voice, her timid,
gentle looks, and her loving ways, kept his
heart tender.

i

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 13

Wolfgang Turkheim, grandson of the old
woman who always came when little Hein-
rich took hold of her apron, was a very rude,
boisterous boy. He had not a bad heart,
but he was bold and strong, and he had
lived with people who taught him all man-
ner of evil things. His father had been in
prison several times for stealing. His mother
died when he was four years old ; and his
father had brought home a coarse, rough
woman, who sold oysters. At night she
came back with a bottle of rum, and they
drank together till both of them were ready
to fight with every body. When Wolfgang
was very small, this woman used to encour-
age him to quarrel with all the boys that
came near him. "Come, my little game-
cock," she would say, "go at him. Let
father see how you can lick a boy twice as
big as you are." Thus taught, Wolfgang
thought it was brave and beautiful to fight ;
and he became a perfect nuisance to the
neighbourhood. Poor little Heinrich could
not step out of doors to pick up sticks to build
houses for Gertrude, without having Wolf-
gang come out and knock them all out of
his hands. Then he would say, " Pick them
up again • if you don't, I'll kick you ; " and
when the patient little fellow had picked them

14 THE CHRIST-CHILD

up, he would spill them all again, and burst
into roars of laughter. He was two years
older than Heinrich, and a great deal stouter
and stronger. Heinrich was very much
afraid of him, but once he was roused to
fight. Little Gertrude was climbing up the
door steps, with her small porringer of water
in one hand, and holding up the rags of her
robe with the other. She had much trouble
to get along ; for the porringer was very full,
and the tatters of her gown tangled her little
naked feet. Wolfgang saw her, and tried to
throw his leather ball so as to hit the por-
ringer ; but instead of that, it hit her eye, and
made her lose her balance and fall back-
ward. She was not hurt very badly, but
she cried out aloud with fright ; and Hein-
rich flew at their troublesome neighbour like
a wild cat. Wolfgang easily threw him
down, and beat him and kicked him till he
made the blood spout from his nose. He
might have half killed him, if Heinrich's
father had not happened to come along.
He seized Wolfgang by the collar, and gave
him a terrible thrashing. Thus did they live
like wild beasts, in that dark, dirty court.
No one had ever taught them that there was
a better way to conquer enemies, than by
fighting and scolding. Violence always

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 15

makes people worse than they otherwise
would be. 'After that encounter, Wolfgang
was more tormenting than ever ; and even
the tender-hearted Heinrich began to grow
more quarrelsome and fierce. When Wolf-
gang came to the door, and snapped his
fingers at him, and called, " Come out here,
you poor little girl-boy ; come out and fight !"
his heart was filled with rage and bitterness.
He hated Wolfgang so badly, that he one
night kicked his old cap all to pieces, and
threw it out to the dogs. Thus these poor
children were in the way to become thieves
and murderers, and perhaps finally to die in
prison or on the gallows, because they had
nothing to encourage their good feelings,
and everything to excite their bad passions.
But our little Heinrich will be saved, and so
will Wolfgang.

One day, when Heinrich was about seven
years old, and Gertrude not quite five, they
obtained leave to walk in the streets to see
the show for Christmas, which was to be on
the morrow. The shops were full of glitter-
ing toys, the windows were hung with ever-
greens, and many large boughs were carried
through the streets, for the Christmas-tree of
some rich man's children. Poor little Hein-
rich looked with longing eyes, and wished

16 THE CHRIST-CHILD

that he and Gertrude could have a Christ-
mas-tree. He gathered up, here and there,
a green bough, which some servant had
dropped on his way. " I will carry home
these to mother," said he, " and she will make
us a Christmas-tree." " And will the Christ-
child bring us anything to hang on our tree V
asked little Gertrude. As she spoke, she
raised her large sad-looking eyes to her
brother's face, with a very earnest expres-
sion. A gentleman, who was passing, heard
what she said, and was struck with her inno-
cent countenance. "Here, my little one,"
said he, "the Christ-child sends thee this,"
and he placed a small coin in her hand. He
inquired where they lived, and wrote it on
a card.

Great was the joy of the children at re-
ceiving the bit of money. They bought four
apples and some nuts, and went home hap-
pier than kings. " Here mother is a Christ-
mas-tree," said Heinrich, displaying his
evergreen boughs. " And see here ! see
what the Christ-child sent us!" said little
Gertrude, opening her ragged apron, and
showing the apples and nuts. Tears came
to the eyes of that poor mother ; for she had
a kind heart, and loved her little ones, though
she was too ill, and poor, and discouraged,

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 17

to do much for them. She took a penny
from the shelf, and told Heinrich to go and
buy a taper to hang in the tree. " Oh mo-
ther, shall we have our tree lighted, just as
they do in the big houses ?" exclaimed Ger-
trude ; and the usually quiet little creature
jumped about and sung.

Rich people in Germany arrange the Christ-
mas-tree privately, and keep the room care-
fully shut, while beautiful presents of all kinds
are hung upon it, to take the children by sur-
prise. It is brilliantly lighted with coloured
lamps, and over it floats a little angel-im-
age with shining wings, which they call the
Christ-child. The very small children think
this Christ-child brings them all the pretty
presents. And truly

" There is an angel, who from Heaven comes,
To bless and comfort all the little ones.
Guess who it is, so good and mild,
And gentle to each little child ?

I'll tell thee It came from God above,

And the spirit's name is Mother's Love."

Heinrich and Gertrude could not have
their tree prepared in another room, and
lighted up to surprise them suddenly with
its splendour ; for they had but one room,
and a little strip of shed, where they and
two or three other families kept brush and

b 2

18 THE CHRIST-CHILD

chips. They had never seen the Christ-
child, with glittering wings, that floated over
the Christmas-trees of the rich ; but the angel
called Mother's Love was with them that
night, and right -happy were they arranging
their Christmas-tree against a broken chair.
The mother went into the shed to get a
piece of wood, to make it stand upright, and
the children followed her. When they came
back, their apples and nuts were gone ! This
was a great affliction to little ones who had
so few joys, and they cried bitterly. " It is
that ugly Wolfgang," said Heinrich ; " when
I am big enough, how I will beat him ! "
Poor little Heinrich ! there was no Christ-
child in his heart when he said that. The
large tears ran down Gertrude's cheeks ;
and now and then she sobbed for their lost
Christmas-tree. But she said nothing ; only
when they lay down to sleep that night, she
asked, in a very melancholy tone, " Mother,
why don't the Christ-child bring things to
poor children ?" Her mother kissed her, and
answered not a word. Her heart was very
full, for she too thought it was very hard
that the Christ-child carried so much to the
rich, and left her little ones without anything
on their Christmas-tree. The children no-

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 19

ticed the looks of her eyes, and said to each
other, " Mother's fits are coming on."

The next morning, Gertrude smiled sweet-
ly, as she slept ; and when she awoke, she
said joyfully, " Oh, Heinrich, I have been in
a beautiful place ! You and I were walking
in a garden. A child with bright wings was
up in a tree, and he threw red apples at us,
and said, ' Be good, Heinrich, be good, Ger-
trude ; and see what the Christ-child will do
for vou.' Did you see his bright wings, Hein-
rich ?" "No, I did not," he replied. " That
is strange," said little Gertrude ; " for you
were with me, and he spoke to both of us."
"It was a dream," said Heinrich. "What
is a dream 1 " asked Gertrude. " It is
somewhere where people go when they are
asleep," answered Heinrich. His sister said
she wished she could go there again, the red
apples were so pretty. " I wish I could beat
Wolfgang," said Heinrich.

It was true that Wolfgang had stolen their
apples and nuts ; but after he had eaten
them he felt very badly about it. He had
some good feelings in his heart, though no-
body had ever taught him anything but evil.
When he saw little Gertrude sitting mourn-
fully on the door-step, next morning, he want-
ed to say, " I wish you a merry Christmas ;"

20 THE CHRIST-CHILD

but the words choked him, for he knew he
had spoiled her Christmas. He whistled,
and took up a stone and threw it at a dog ;
and nobody knew that Wolfgang's heart was
troubled with some kindly and repentant
feelings. He went forth into the streets with
his old hat pulled over his eyes, and his hands
stuck in his pockets. An orange woman,
jostled by the crowd, had her basket knock-
ed off her head. Wolfgang darted among
the scattered oranges, and under pretence
of helping to pick them up, he filled his
pockets and ran home. " Here, Gertrude,"
said he, " here are some oranges for you. 1
am sorry you lost all your nuts and apples."
The little girl's eyes sparkled at sight of the
golden fruit. "Did the Christ-child give
them to you ?" she asked. Wolfgang felt a
twinge at his heart ; but he only whistled,
and told her to call her brother. Heinrich
had kept out of sight, because he wanted to
beat Wolfgang, and was afraid to do it.
But when Gertrude showed the oranges, and
said he was sorry they had lost their nuts
and apples, he ran out with boyish eagerness
to ask where the oranges came from. " An
old woman spilled them in the street, and I
picked them up and run," said Wolfgang.
" Oh, then the Christ-child did not give them

AND THE PGufi CHILDREN. 21

to you." said little Gertrude, with a disap-
pointed look. " Never mind the Christ-
child," replied Wolfgang ; " the old woman
had a bushel of oranges, and will never miss
these." " Perhaps she is poor, and sells them
for somebody else, and will have to pay for
these," said Heinrich. "Oh, shut up, shut
up," shouted Wolfgang, laughing : " Come,
eat your oranges : the old woman will never
miss them, I tell you. It is a hard case if
we can't have some Christmas as well as
other folks." He cut open an orange, as he
spoke, and the rich juice flowed so tempt-
ingly, that Heinrich and his sister began to
eat. They had scarcely eaten half an orange,
when some men came into the lane, and a
woman, who was with them, cried out,
" That 's the boy that stole my oranges !"
Then the men roughly seized Wolfgang and
Heinrich, and said, " Ah, you young thieves,
come along with us to prison." Gertrude
threw her arms about her brother, and cried
out piteously, " Oh, don't take Heinrich away !
He didn't steal the oranges, indeed he didn't."
A friendly voice spoke, and said, " What is
the matter here, my little girl ?" Gertrude
looked up, and through her tears, saw the
gentleman who had given her the small coin
the day before. She immediately ran to

22 THE CHRIST-CHILD

him, and exclaimed, earnestly, " Oh, good
sir, they are going to take Heinrich to pri-
son, and he didn't steal the oranges. He
didn't steal the oranges." " Did you know
they were stolen?" asked the gentleman.
The children hung their heads, and did not
answer. " My little one, how came you to
eat the oranges, if you knew they were
stolen ? " said the gentleman, placing his hand
affectionately on Gertrude's head. The child
looked up, with all the frankness of inno-
cence, and answered, " Somebody stole our
nuts and apples, that the Christ-.child sent
us. We had nothing on our Christmas-tree ;
and the oranges looked so good." The offi-
cers let go their hold of Heinrich, and the
orange- woman felt tears coming into her
eyes. " That is the boy that stole my oran-
ges," said she, pointing to Wolfgang ; " these
other children would of course eat what he
gave them." " No, it is not of course," re-
plied the stranger gentleman, in a very kind
tone ; " for good children will never 'eat
what they know is stolen." " Umph ! " said
the orange-woman, "whom have they to
teach 'em to be good 1 " " Did you steal
the oranges, my boy 1 " said the gentleman
to Wolfgang. He did not answer, but stood
with his hands in his pockets, looking very

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 23

sullen. " See him ! he looks like a born
thief," exclaimed the orange- woman.

"Nobody is born a thief, my good woman,"
replied the stranger, with a smile : " To-day
is Christmas : the day when Christ was born,
who came to open all the prison doors.
These children are very young, and I hope
will steal no more. Let them go, and I will
pay for your fruit." " But," said the offi-
cers, " this is a bad-looking boy ; if we let
him get off so easily, he will be doing farther
mischief." " Try him this once," said the
gentleman ; " it is Christmas-day, and he is
very young." Thus entreated, the officers
went away. Wolfgang stared at the stran-
ger, who thus addressed them : " My chil-
dren, this is a bad life you are leading. I
live about five miles from the city, and I
have with me fifty children, who have no
kind parents to take care of them. They
are very happy. Will you come and live
with them?"

The children looked at each other, and
didn't know what to say. When the ques-
tion was again repeated, Wolfgang answer-
ed, with an impudent air, " I know what you
want. You want to make us work like dogs
for you. I won't go along."

" No, my child," replied the stranger, " i

24 THE CHRIST-CHILD

do not want you to work like dogs for me.
I want you to work like good industrious
children, for yourselves ; that you may have
good things to eat, and clean clothes to wear,
and be able to do something for other poor
children." Wolfgang played with the peb-
bles in his pockets, and gave a low whistle,
as much as to say he didn't believe a word
of it. " Will you go 1 " said the gentleman
to Heinrich : " Will you work in our garden
next spring ? You and your sister shall have
a little garden of your own." Gertrude's
eyes brightened. "Oh, Heinrich," she ex-
claimed, " it would be so pleasant to have a
garden ! The beautiful Christ-child spoke to
me in a garden." " We could not leave our
mother," replied Heinrich. The little girl's
expressive face saddened all at once, like a
cloud going over a sunny field. " Oh, no,"
said she, " mother couldn't do without us."
" Where is your mother?" inquired the stran-
ger. " In bed," replied Heinrich. " How
comes it that she is not up at this late hour ? "
." I think she has one of her fits," answered
Heinrich ; " for she has not spoken to us this
morning." " Does your mother drink too
much ? " inquired the stranger, in a very low
tone. " Oh, no, indeed," replied Heinrich,
" my mother never drinks." " What do you

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 25

mean by saying she has one of her fits?"
said the gentleman. "I don't know what
fits are," replied the boy. " Old dame Turk-
heim says mother has crazy fits."

The gentleman followed the children into
the room, where stood two broken chairs,
and a rickety table, with a battered porrin-
ger, a mug without a handle, and a few po-
tatoe skins. On the bed of rags lay a wo-
man, whose fair pale countenance still gave
indication of early beauty. Her e) es were
open, but had a strange look, like one who
walks in sleep. She took no notice of any-
thing, and made no answer when spoken to.
The stranger sighed deeply, as he looked
round the miserable apartment. All, but the
wretchedly poor, were rejoicing with Christ-
mas presents, before a blazing fire. But
these little hardy children were blue with
the cold, and a few scattered boughs, some
still tied to the broken chair, were all they
had for Christmas. " Where is your father ?"
said he. " I don't know, sir," replied Hein-
rich : " he has not been home these two days."
" Is he kind to you ?" " When he is sober,.
he is very kind," said Heinrich. " If I take
your mother along with me, would you like
to go and have a good Christmas dinner?
You shall all come back whenever mother

26 THE CHRIST-CHILD

wishes." " Oh, please let us go," said Ger-
trude : " I saw the Christ-child in a garden,
and he spoke to us just like yon."

A sleigh was soon brought to the door,
and the unconscious mother and her chil-
dren were lifted in, and covered warmly
with buffalo skins. Wolfgang was again
urged to go, but he answered very gruffly,
that he had rather stay where he was.

Heinrich and Gertrude were delighted
beyond measure. It was the first ride they
ever had. The multitude of happy-looking
children in the street, the merry bells, and
their rapid motion through the clear pure
air, made them very glad. At last they
came to a place which the gentleman told
them was his home. Two large houses
stood near each other, and around them
were several smaller ones, with many barns
and outhouses. A wide circular space
around the large houses was laid out in gar-
den walks, with many arches and arbours.
Snow covered the garden with a pure whit©
robe, and lay on the evergreen trees like a
mantle of swan's down. The principal gate
of entrance rose in a pointed arch, sur
mounted by a Cross, wreathed with a vine,
from which some crimson leaves still flutter-
ed. A group of boys were building a snow

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 27

man in one of the walks, and others were
playing at bat and ball. From one of the
houses came the sound of music, and of hap-
py children's voices. The ride, the invigor-
ating air, and the pleasant sounds, seemed
to rouse the mother from her lethargy. She
looked round bewildered, as if wondering
where she was. The gentleman led them
in, and a multitude of little folks flocked
around them. " Here, my children," said
he, " I have brought some new comrades, to
help you play and work." They all began
to jump and caper. A blind man sat by the
fire-side, with a flute in his hand. He war-
bled the first notes of a joyful tune, and the
children, of their own accord, took hold of
each others' hands, and formed a circle
round the new comers, singing,

Welcome, children, welcome here,
Where perfect love has cast out fear !
Here we work the live-long day,
And that makes us enjoy our play.
Welcome, little children dear,
For the Christ-child brought you here.

There was a large evergreen tree in the
middle of the table, with gay ribbons in the
branches, and among the topmost boughs
nestled the image of an angel-child, with
large mild eyes, and shining wings. The

28 THE CHRIST-CHILD

children came running with little bags and
baskets and books. " See," said they, " see
what the Christ-child brought us last night !
Did he bring you anything ? " " He brought
us some nuts and apples," said Heinrich,
" but an ugly boy named Wolfgang stole them
all. I wish I could beat him." Then spoke
little Hans, the son of the blind flute-player :
" Oh," said he, " that would only make Wolf-
gang want to beat you. The Christ-child
never beats anybody. If one strikes him,
he gives him a kiss, and then he wants to
strike no more." " Oh no," exclaimed many
voices, "the Christ-child never beats any
one. The Christ-child loves every one, and
every one loves him." " But," said Hans,
" these little friends have had no Christmas-
tree, and we will give them some of our
presents." Then all were eager to bring
something. One brought a picture-book,
and another a basket ; and a little chubby
girl came with an apron full of red apples
to fill the basket. Heinrich and Gertrude
did not know what to make of all this.
They never had such joy in their lives.
Gertrude looked at the round red apples,
and then at the angel -image in the tree ; and
she said, " Why don't the Christ-child speak
to me? and say 'Be good, Gertrude — be

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 29

good, Heinrich.' " " The Christ-child can't
speak, can he, father ?" said the children, ad-
dressing the gentleman, who had brought
the poor little ones from their cold dismal
home, into fire-warmth and gladness. " Yes,
my children," he replied, " he speaks inside
your hearts ; and he says ever, Be good ;
love one another."

They had a happy time there, at the
Father-House and the Mother-House, that
merry Christmas day ! I wish all the poor
children were brought from all the dark
holes of the world into such a pleasant home.
The wife of the gentleman had a beaming
face and very friendly eyes. She took lit-
tle Gertrude and Heinrich by the hand, and
calling two or three of the older children to
help her, she led them to the bathing rooms,
and washed them, and combed their hair,
and dresssed them in cheap, but very neat
clothes. When little Gertrude came out of
the bath, the water made her hair twist into
curls, and the golden ringlets fell all round
her innocent face. She looked first at her-
self, and then at Heinrich in his new gar-
ments, and then she clapped her little hands
and laughed. When they went back to the
large room, she stroked her clean apron
with great satisfaction, and Heinrich kept

30 THE CHRIST-CHILD

thrusting out his feet to look at his new
shoes. Never were two children so happy.
The poor mother had some nourishing food
prepared for her, and was persuaded to take
a bath, and dress herself in clean garments.
It was very affecting to see her gaze upon
her children. She had never seen them so
happy before, and therefore she* never knew
how beautiful they were. Then came the
remembrance pf their drunken father, and
their own miserable dwelling ; and wThile
her mouth wras smiling, her eyes were swim-
ming with tears.

The children all sung a hymn together,
before they went to rest ; and all kissed the
two kind people, whom they called Father
and Mother. As they parted off to their
different rooms, sweet little voices were
heard singing to each other, " Good night,
good night." They all slept like dormice,
until the bell woke them in the morning.
Then they took a bath, and sang a hymn to-
gether. After breakfast, every one went to
work, as busy as bees. Even the smallest
child had something to do. At the end of
two hours, they all had a run in the air, and
came back to work till dinner time. " We
like to work, about as well as to play," said
Hans ; " for you see our work is play. Each

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 31

ooy does what he can do best, and he likes
lo do it. T like to weave baskets ; and that
boy there likes to cut images in wood ; and
that little girl knits famous caps. We choose
some boy to carry these things to Hamburg
to sell ; and each of us likes to see how much
we can earn." " Who do you earn the money
for?" asked Heinrich: " is it for yourself?"
u Not for ourselves, but for each other," re-
plied Hans : " but you see ^iat is for our-
selves. If we can buy trees and grafts for
our orchard, we all have more fruit ; if we
can buy bushes and seeds for our garden,
we all have more flowers ; if we can add to
our library, we all have more pleasant books
to read. We all give a portion of what we
earn for our food and clothes, and a portion
to the poor ; and the remainder each gives
as he pleases. One gives his toward buying
some more books for the library ; another
toward maps for the school ; another to-
ward building an arbour, or a lattice for
grapes ; another to buy prints for our pic-
ture-room. We have bought two flutes and
a clarionet, and a bass viol ; and we hope
we shall be able to buy a piano, some time
or other. I put six cents a week into the
piano treasury. Oh, it is a great deal plea-
santer to work for a thing, than it is to have

32 THE CHRIST-CHILD

it bought for you. When I hear the flute
it pleases me to think I helped to earn that
pleasure for all the others."

" And this man that you call Father, what
makes him bring poor children here?" ask-
ed Heinrich. " Because he loves to do good
and make everybody happy," answered
Hans. " And if a boy won't work, does he
flog him ? " " Oh no, indeed," said Hans ;
" I have been here three years, and I never
saw a whip, or heard a cross word spoken.
Sometimes, children are lazy at first ; but
where they see everybody else working
they want to work too ; and they soon be-
gin to feel uneasy, to be earning something
toward the library, or the music-room, or
the garden, or the play-ground."

" What does the Father do to stop the
children from running away ? "

" He makes them so happy they don't
want to run away," said Hans. " I have
heard him say, that when he came here,
there were iron bars on the windows, and
heavy bolts on the gates ; but he took them
all off. He says he don't want us held by
any chains, but the chains of love. And we
every one of us love Father and Mother so
much, that we had rather cut off a finger,
than do anything to grieve them, They

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 33

never scold at us, but if we do wrong, they
seem very sad."

All this sounded very strange to poor
Heinrich, who had seen so much fighting
and quarrelling. It made him happy to
hear his mother say that the good gentle-
man would try to persuade his father to
leave off drinking, and come and live there
too. It was several months before the
drunkard could be persuaded to come. He
thought it was all a trick to get work out ot
him for nothing. But he was very lonesome,
and he had not the heart to take his children
away from a place where they seemed so
happy. When the summer came, he went
out often to see his family ; and when he
looked at Heinrich with his wheelbarrow,
weeding the garden, and Gertrude feeding
the chickens, he could not help feeling thank-
ful that they were removed from his dirty,
stifled room in the city. One day his beau-
tiful little daughter leaned on his knee, and
looked up in his face with those large eyes,
so plaintive and loving in their expression,
and said, " Dear father, do come and stay
with us always. It is so pleasant living
here." The unhappy father caught her in
his arms, and bursting into tears, said, " I
will never get drunk again ; ] will never
" 3

34 THE CHRIST-CHILD

swear again ; I will be a good man, for your
sake, my angel-child." He came next day
to the Father-House, as it was called ; and
he was so steady and industrious, that he
soon became the head gardener. He had
been so used to scolding and swearing, that
he once or twice said what he ought not to
have said. But little Gertrude blushed for
him, and Heinrich said, " Please, father, don't
speak so here. You know the good man
don't like to hear us speak any but kind,
and pleasant, and clean words." And he
would answer, " I did wrong, my son ; but
it was because I forgot." ■ Thus did the lit-
tle children take their father by the hand,
and lead him to the angels.

And where was Wolfgang all this time ?
He was cursing, and swearing, and fighting.
When the good Father went to Hamburgh,
he several times tried to coax him to go
back with him ; but he always answered
gruffly that he would rather stay as he was.
At last, he was detected in stealing, and sent
to prison, where he was treated severely,
and kept company with many boys worse
than himself. He came out with a heart
much harder than when he went in. When
the good Hans, son of the blind flute-player,
tried to persuade him to go to the Father-

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 35

House, and be a better boy, he mocked at
him, with his fingers on his nose, and then
kicked him. But there was a soft place, in
his heart, after all. Wolfgang once had a
little twin sister, who died when she was
about four years old. He loved that little
sister more than he ever loved anything in
the world. It chanced that Gertrude Lud-
wig came to Hamburgh one day, with seve-
ral other little girls, and the good Mother,
to sell flowers. When Wolfgang saw her
standing with a bouquet in her hand, singing
" Come buy my flowers," his first thought
was to snatch the bouquet, and pull it to
pieces. But then he remembered his little
sister, and he thought Gertrude looked like
her ; and he could not do it. He lingered
round them, as long as they staid. He
thought of the prison he had lately left, tmd
he wondered whether it was as pleasant at
the Father-House, as Hans had told him.
Gertrude had in her hands a garland which
she had broken. She smiled at Wolfgang,
and throwing him one end of the garland, in
play, she said, "Come, Wolfgang, let me
lead you to the Father-House. We will
make you so happy there !" The innocent
little creature did not know she was a mis-
sionary to the poor; but when the rough

36 THE CHRIST-CHILD

boy gave her his hand, she jumped for glad-
ness. She introduced him to the other chil-
dren, as a new comrade, and they sung a
welcome round him.

For a day or two, Wolfgang behaved
tolerably well ; but his evil habits were
strong, and he soon began to be quarrel-
some and mischievous. Heinrich was nurs-
ing a few currant-bushes in his garden, with
great care. The bad boy dug them up by
the roots, and when Heinrich came to look
at them, he laughed and mocked at him.
Heinrich grew very red in the face, and be-
gan to double up his fists. But, luckily, he
remembered that the boys had been told to
go to the Father-House and ask advice of
their teacher, whenever they were in trou-
ble, or tempted to do anything wrong.
Therefore, he did not say one word, but
went straight to the Father, and told him
the story. " You say you wanted to beat
Wolfgang," replied the good man : " would
that make him a better boy ? " " No, sir,"
replied Heinrich ; for he knew that beating
never made him better. " Do you want to
punish him, or do you want to make him a
better boy?" asked the teacher. Heinrich
hesitated ; but finally answered, " I did want
to have him punished ; but I ought to want

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 37

to make him a better boy." "You have
answered well," replied the Father. " I ad-
vise you to treat Wolfgang, more kindly
than ever, and make no allusion to what he
has done. Offer to help him make his gar-
den ; and the next time you have fruit, or
anything he particularly likes, give half your
share to him. In the book I read to you,
tyou know Jesus Christ says we must over-
come evil with good. Let us try it with
Wolfgang. The more evil he does to us,
the more good will we do to him."

Heinrich promised that he would, and he
went away glad that he had not struck his
provoking companion. The next day, he
helped dig Wolfgang's garden, and gave
him some plants from his own. The rude
boy was at first rather surly and ungraci-
ous, but his heart was touched ; and when
Heinrich came to him at sunset, with a bas-
ket full of berries, he could not help saying,
" I am sorry I pulled up your currant-bushes.
I only did it for fun. I will water them
every day, and try to make them live."
" Thank you," said Heinrich ; and the two
boys chatted pleasantly together, among the
flowers. When Heinrich saw the teacher,
he ran to him, and whispered in his ear,
" Father, the evil is overcome with good 1

38 THE CHRIST-CHILD

Wolfgang is sorry." A kiss and a smile
were his reward ; and he went bounding
off, with a heart full of love and joy.

Wolfgang had formed very lazy habits,
and he thought rich people were most to be
envied because they could live without work.
But the Father and Mother worked very in-
dustriously, and they taught all the children
that God made everything to be useful ; that
he who did most for others was the noblest*
man ; and he who made others serve him in
his laziness, was the meanest man. Thus
the boys learned to think it honourable to
labour. They worked and played alter-
nately, and did both with their whole hearts.
By degrees, Wolfgang caught the spirit, and
began to like work as well as play. He
was very fond of music, and soon became
ambitious to contribute toward a piano for
the concert room. The teacher saw that he
had uncommon gifts for music. He advised
him to contrive some wa^pf earning extra
money enough to buy a wffte ; and the blind
man offered to teach him to play upon it. I
am glad Wolfgang will have a flute : for the
sweet sounds will teach far gentler lessons,
than the cursing and swearing in that dark
alley. They will talk to him of worship and
of tenderness, till his whole soul will be filled

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 39

with bird-warblings, and summer moonlight,
and love for every helpless thing.

But habits of selfishness, once formed, are
difficult to cure. Neither love nor music
could make Wolfgang a good boy, without
strong efforts. When he had been there a
few weeks, he was one day detected in tak-
ing a small coin from the Treasury for Poor
Children. Each one of the household put
something into that box every week, to pur-
chase books and clothing for those who came
there destitute. Wolfgang had himself been
clothed from that treasury ; yet something
evil tempted him to steal from it. The chil-
dren were all very indignant with him, and
many wanted to have him turned away
directly. But the Father said to them,
" Wolfgang has done this wrong, because
he formed bad habits when he was small,
and had nobody to teach him better. If we
turn him into the streets, who will love him
and pray for him? who will help him to
grow good 1 " One little boy said, " Ah, we
have all done so many wrong things, because
we had nobody to teach us better." An-
other said, " Wolfgang lived nine years
among bad people, and he has been here but
a few weeks. We must give him time."
Then a little girl burst into tears, and said,

40 THE CHRIST-CHILD

" Wolfgang's mother is dead. Let us all
help him to be good." The teacher, deeply
moved, said, " Whoever thinks as Mary does,
may hold up the right hand." Every hand
was raised. When the culprit saw this, he
held do.wn his head, and the big tears drop-
ped on his feet. The good Mother said,
" Let us sing together." And they sung a
plaintive little song, that told how the mother
loves her child, and wishes him to be good
and happy. Every verse ended with the
mournful chorus,

" But my mother died
A long, long time ago."

The poor boy could, not bear this. He re-
membered how his mother used to kiss him ;
he remembered when she lay dead and could
speak to him no more. He threw himself
on the bench, and sobbed violently. The
other children began to weep with him.
The teacher said, " This is too sad. Let us
sing a cheerful hymn together, and then we
will go and play in the open air." But the
good Mother took Wolfgang by the hand,
and kissed him, and led him to her own
room, where they talked together, till the
stars were in the sky.

After that, Wolfgang was much changed

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 41

He became more gentle and obliging ; he
seldom spoke an improper word, and seem-
ed perfectly honest. But his evil propensi-
ties were not quite conquered. He thought
that blessed night that he should never want
to do wrong again. But poor Wolfgang
will sin and suffer more, before his soul be-
comes quite clean.

Two days before Christmas, he was cho-
sen by the children to go to Hamburgh, to
sell their baskets. Gertrude gave him par-
ticular instructions about a basket, which
she had woven with great care. " Is it not
pretty," said she, turning it round with de-
light : " I want it to sell well ; for I mean to
give every penny to the Christ-child, for
poor children, who have no Christmas-tree."
Wolfgang promised, and went away full of
happiness and good resolutions. But in
Hamburgh he met some of his old wicked
associates. They teased him to give them
a treat of cake and gin. When he refused,
they called him stingy. When he told them
the money was not his, they laughed at him,
and asked him whether he hadn't done work
enough out there, to have a little money to
spend. Wolfgang was weak enough to feel
ashamed when they made fun of him. After
a while, he let them tease away the basket-

d

42 THE CHRIST-CHILD

money, and spend it for gin, and cake,
and marbles. He thought to himself that
he would earn enough to make it up ; but
still he felt very unhappy. He tried to play
with the boys ; but an uneasy feeling trou-
bled him all the time, and made his heart
very heavy. The boys told him that he
had lost all his spirit by living out there at
the Father-House, and that he must drink
gin and be merry. At first he refused ; but
they made fun of him, till he raised the hate-
ful liquor to his mouth. He drank but one
swallow, and set the mug down hastily.
He remembered that he had promised the
good Mother, that night when they sat to-
gether alone in the starlight, that he would
never again taste of intoxicating liquor, and
never steal again. When the boys saw that
he did not drink, as he used to do, they rais-
ed a great shout, and mocked at him with
their fingers, and cried, " Ah, you coward !
you are afraid of the old tyrant at the Father-
House!" "Say that again, if you dare!"
shouted Wolfgang, doubling up his fist. " He
is not a tyrant. He is a dear good father to
all of us. He has been very kind to me.
And I — and I — " He could not finish ; but
choking with emotion, he turned and ran
away.

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 43

He took the road homeward ; but after
running a little way, he began to think that
he had been too wicked to go back. " It is
the first time they have sent me to Ham-
burgh," thought he, " and I have stolen their
money, and drank gin, and doubled up my
fist to fight. Poor little Gertrude ! she was
so ready to trust me ; and now I am afraid
she will cry about her pretty basket for the
Christ-child. Oh, dear ! I expected to have
such a happy Christmas ; and I could sing
the tenor so well for the Christmas-hymn ;
and now I cannot go back — I cannot go
back." He sat down on a rock, and cried
a long time. Then he crept into a shed and
slept under a heap of straw. The next
morning, he skulked about, dreading to go
to his old haunts, and not daring to go home.
At last, the evening drew near ; and it was
Christmas Eve. In a few hours, the Christ-
mas-hymn would be sounding at the Father-
House, and the happy children would be
gathering around the Christmas-tree. Again
Wolfgang wept aloud ; but this time some-
thing whispered in his heart, " Go back, poor
erring child. They will forgive thee. Go,
and sin no more."

The winter air blew keen and strong, but
Wolfgang faced it bravely. He was m a

44 THE CHRIST-CHILD

sad and thoughtful state of mind, and there-
fore the wind among the trees spoke mourn-
fully, and the evening star seemed to look
into the very depths of his soul. At last, he
came in sight of the Father-House. The
light of a blazing fire was streaming through
the shutters, and the sound of the blind man's
flute flowed through the evening air, like an
angel's voice. Wolfgang spied a half-open
shutter, and he crept timidly up, and peeped
in, as well as he could through the frosty
window-pane. The children were all around
the flute-player, and two of the very little
ones were dancing. The teacher stood
among them, and played with castanets.
Presently, the Mother came in. He could
not hear what she said, but they all began
to jump and caper, and he guessed she had
called them to come and look at their Christ-
mas-tree.

He guessed right. They all ran after the
good Mother ; and Gertrude, as she passed
the window, saw a face peeping in. She
started at first, but immediately arose the joy-
ous cry, " Wolfgang is come ! Wolfgang is
at the window ! " " He has done very wrong
to stay so long in the city, and give us so
much uneasiness," said the teacher ; " but
we will welcome him home. Let Gertrude

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. . 45

go out and invite him in ; for she first led
him to the Father-House." The little girl
went out, much satisfied with her mission
She did not come back soon, and Heinrich
wTas sent for her. Presently they returned,
and Gertrude said, " Wolfgang will not come
in. He says he wants to see the Mother.
When I asked him about my basket, he did
nothing but cry." The Mother immediately
went out, saying, " Wait a little for the
Christmas-tree, my children. I will bring
Wolfgang in." When the repentant child
saw his kind friend coming toward him, he
dropped on his knees trembling and weep-
ing, and said, " Oh, mother, I have spent all
their money, and drank gin, and doubled up
my fist to fight ; and I dare not go in to
hear them sing the Christmas-hymn." " This
is sad, indeed, my child," replied the Mother;
" but you repent, and repentance always
brings peace. Come in, and tell the whole
story frankly. As they all sent baskets by
you, they all have a right to know what you
have done with the money." " I cannot. I
cannot," said Wolfgang : " they will never
forgive me. They have already forgiven
so much." " And therefore can forgive
more," said the Mother : " Come with me."
She put his arm within hers, and led him in.

46 • THE CHRIST-CHILD

But he slunk behind her, abashed, and stood
gazing on the floor, until she whispered in
his ear, " My son, is it not right to confess
what you have done ? "

Then, with many tears, Wolfgang told
how he went away with good resolutions,
how some boys, as bad as he used to be,
tempted him, and how he had been weak
enough to yield, though he knew it was
wrong. " I have given them all your money,"
said he ; " but I will not buy my flute, and I
will work every minute of my play hours,
till I earn enough to pay you."

When he had finished his story, the Father
said, " Well, my children, what ought to be
done to Wolfgang ? " There was silence for
a moment. Then little Gertrude said, " The
Christ-child would forgive him." " And shall
we forgive him ? " asked the Mother. They
all held up their hands. " And now," said
the Father, " we will go to the Christmas-
tree, and sing the Christmas-hymn. Come,
Wolfgang, we are glad to have your voice
to-night." The once rude boy was now
gentle as a lamb. He cohered his face with
his hands, and said, " Oh, father, I am not
worthy to sing the Christmas-hymn." " Then
sing it, that you may become worthy, my
son," replied the good teacher.

AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 47

The Mother opened the wide doors of the
dining-room, and there stood the Christmas-
tree in a blaze of light, with ribbons and
wreaths, and the smiling angel-image. Some
of the children nestled close to the Mother's
side, and privately put little presents in her
hand, and said, " Please, mother, hang these
on the tree for Wolfgang." And the Mother
smiled and blessed them for their love.

When they sang the Christmas-hymn that
night, Wolfgang's clear voice sounded dis-
tinct and strong ; but when they came to the
verse that told how Jesus forgave all injury,
and ever returned good for evil, his voice
quivered, and went silent.

When they were about to part for the
night, the Father said, " Now, my children,
I have something to propose to you. In a
few days, we must send some more baskets
to Hamburgh. Let us send them by Wolf-
gang, that he may see we trust him entirely.
He must learn to meet temptation and resist
it." " Oh, yes, we will trust him ! we will
trust him !" shouted many voices.

The offender dropped on his knees ; but
the teacher said, " Not to me, my child ; not
to me. Kneel before your Father in Hea-
ven, who maketh his sun to shine alike on
the evil and on the good." He kissed his

48

THE CHRIST-CHILD.

forehead, and the Mother led him to a room
apart. There she laid his head on her bo-
som, and talked to him affectionately of his
own mother, and of his little sister that died.
She told him that through temptation and
struggle, bad men become good, and good
men become angels. She read to him some
of the blessed words of Jesus ; and they
knelt down and prayed together for forgive-
ness and strength. In those sacred hours
of love and prayer, the angels came into his
heart, and he never after drove them away.
Thus did the spirit of Love lead those poor
children out of that dark and dirty lane, and
those dark and evil passions, into sunlight
and peace.

THE NEW-YORK BOY'S SONG

TO CROTON WATER.

h, blessed be the Croton !
It floweth everywhere —
sprinkles o'er the dusty ground,
It cooleth all the air.

It poureth by the wayside,
A constant stream of joy,

To every little radish girl,
And chimney-sweeping boy.

Poor little ragged children,

Who sleep in wretched places,

Come out for Croton water,
To wash their dirty faces.

**

50 THE NEW-YORK BOY's SONG

And if they find a big- tub full.
They shout aloud with glee,

And all unite to freight a chip,
And send it out to sea.

To the ever-running hydrant

The dogs delight to g6,
To bathe themselves, and wet their
tongues,

In the silver water-flow.

The thirsty horse, he knoweth well
Where the Croton poureth down,

And thinks his fare is much improved
In the hot and dusty town.

And many a drunkard has forgot

To seek the fiery cup ;
For everywhere, before his face,

Sweet water leapeth up.

Then blessings on the Croton !

It flows for man and beast,
And gives its wealth out freely,

To the greatest and the least.

TO CROTON WATER. 51

We city boys take great delight
To watch its bubbling play,

To make it rush up in the air,
Or whirl around in spray.

It is good sport to guide a hose

Against the window-pane,
Or dash it through the dusty trees,

Like driving summer rain.

Oh, blessed be the Croton !

It gives us endless fun,
To make it jump and splash about,

And sparkle in the sun.

And the Fountains in their beauty,

It glads our hearts to see —
Ever springing up to heaven,

So gracefully and free.

Fast fall their sparkling diamonds,
Beneath the sun's bright glance,

And like attendant fairies,

The shim'ring rainbows dance.

White and pure their feathery foam,
Under the moon's mild ray,

52 THE NEW- YORK BOY S SONG.

While twinkling stars look brightly dowi*
Upon their ceaseless play.

And all about the crowded town,
In garden, shop, or bower,

Neat little fountains scatter round
A small refreshing shower.

Perhaps some dolphin spouts it forth
To sprinkle flower or grass,

Or marble boy, with dripping urn,
Salutes you as you pass.

Then blessings on the Croton !

May it diminish never —
For its glorious beauty

Is a joy forever.

Note.— In former years, water was very scarce and very bad,
in some parts of the city of New-York. But now an abun*
dance of delicious water is brought from the river Croton,
forty miles off It runs under-ground, in big iron pipes.
In every street, are conductors, called hydrants, from which
small streams flow continually.

MAMKINS;

OR, LITTLE MEN.

In 1741, one of the most
remarkable dwarfs ever
seen was born in Lorraine
county, France. His parents
were absolutely frightened at
his extreme smallness. His
head was no bigger than a

arge nut, and his crv was as feeble as the

squeak of a mouse. His mouth was so small
that they were at a loss how to feed him ;
but by means of a very small silver tube,
they at last contrived to give him a drop or
two of luke-warm milk at a time. He was
carried to church in one of his mother's
wooden shoes, to be baptized. No one
thought it possible that he could live ; but
he did live, and grew stronger every day.
His size, however, increased but little. He

54 MANIKINS ; OR,

was never more than twenty-six inches high,
and weighed fifteen pounds. His hands and
feet were like those of a doll, and his little
round fresh face was no bigger than an
apple. He was a very lively and animated
child, and before he was a year old, could
walk very well. His mother did not dare
to let him run about the house, for fear he
would get lost, or run over; but his father
arranged a line of boards for him, along
which he would run like a squirrel.

He was exceedingly slow in learning to
speak. At six years old, he could not arti-
culate a single word. His parents were
poor and very ignorant, and they thought
that witches, or wicked fairies, had made
him silent, and prevented him from growing.
He was exceedingly sweet-tempered, affec-
tionate, and generous. He was passionate-
ly attached to his family, and loved every
little bird and lamb. As soon as he could
walk, he was eager to be up early in the
morning, that he might go into the lower
court, with his little basket full of grain for
the chickens. He would ask for bread con-
tinually, that he might crumble it up for the
ducks and birds. If the greedy turkeys
came after it, he would chase them away
with a stick, though they were bigger than

LITTLE MEN. 55

he was. An old goose and a sheep, on his
father's farm, became so much attached to
the kind little fellow, that they would follow
him everywhere. The sheep would allow
him to climb upon her back, and sit there by
the hour together. If his mother allowed
him to go to one of the neighbours to play,
the goose would follow him, and watch every
step with as much care, as if she were con-
scious that such a little person was exposed
to unusual dangers. She would never allow
a strange dog to come near him ; and even
if she saw one at a distance, she would
stretch out her long neck, with hisses, to
drive him away.

As he grew older, his parents allowed him
to run about in the fields with his sheep and
goose. Breathing the fresh air continually,
and accustomed to constant exercise, his lit-
tle face was blooming as a rose, and his
well-formed limbs were remarkable for pli-
ancy and gracefulness. People came from
far and near to look at him ; and they never
could sufficiently admire his pretty little
figure, and lively motions.

At last, his fame reached the ears of Stan-
islaus the Benevolent, then Duke of Lor-
raine, and afterward King of Poland. This
prince heard such marvellous accounts of

56 MANIKINS ; OR,

the dwarf, that he sent to have him brought
to court. His father packed him away in a
rush basket, and covered him with leaves,
as he would a rabbit. When he presented
himself at court, the duke said, in a disap-
pointed tone, " Why have you not brought
your famous little son?" The villager took
off the napkin that covered his basket, and
little Nicholas immediately popped out his
head, and jumped on the floor. The duke
was so delighted with this remarkable child,
that he wanted to keep him always. He
found it hard to coax his father to part with
him, but his very liberal offers at last induc-
ed him to consent. Thinking the prince
would do more for the boy than he could, he
left him at court, and went homeward with
many tears.

All the lords and ladies caressed little
Nicholas exceedingly, and overloaded him
with sweetmeats and playthings. But the
poor little fellow was very homesick. The
richly dressed ladies did not seem like his own
fond mother ; and he liked a thousand times
better to ride on the back of his sheep, than to
be shut up in the Duke's grand carriage.
He would not run, sleep, or eat. He be-
came sulky, and took no interest in anything.
He would not try to say a word, except

LITTLE MEN. 57

"mamma, mamma;" and this he repeated,
in a most mournful tone, through the whole
day, and the long, long night. This contin-
ual un happiness, with want of food and sleep,
made him very ill, and they feared he would
die.

He was too weak to be carried home, and
the prince sent a messenger for his mother.
The moment the poor child heard her well-
known voice, his eyes sparkled, and his little
pale cheeks flushed with joy. Feeble as he
was, he sprang out of bed, and rushed into
her arms. He could not be persuaded to
leave her for a moment, and would sleep no-
where but on her lap. Under her affection-
ate care, he soon became strong and lively
as ever.

He had never been to school, and his utter-
ance was extremely imperfect. The prince
offered him all kinds of playthings, if he
would learn to read. He tried to do as they
wished, but he could never remember any-
thing except the vowels. He called all the
consonants B ; and he took such a fancy to
that sound, that he used it to ask for almost
everything he wanted. *For this reason, he
was generally called Be-Be, though his real
name was Nicholas Ferry.

It was evidently of no use to trouble his

5S MANIKINS ; OR,

litt/e brain with learning ; for it was not big
enough to hold it. In dancing, he succeed-
ed much better. He soon became remark-
able for the swiftness of his movements, and
for all manner of graceful gambols. They
taught him to handle a little gun very dex-
terously ; and large companies often assem-
bled at the castle, to see the manikin, in gre-
nadier's uniform, jumping, vaulting, and fenc-
ing, upon a large table.

One day, the duke made a grand dinner,
and invited many distinguished lords and
ladies. The principal ornament of the table
was a large pie, in the shape of a citadel,
with towers, turrets, ramparts, and sugar
artillery. When the first course was remov-
ed from the table, a band of musicians struck
up a lively tune. Up jumped the pie-crust,
and out started little Nicholas, holding a
brace of the smallest pistols that ever were
seen, and flourishing a little sabre over his
head. The guests, being entirely unprepar-
ed for his appearance, were. startled at first,
but they soon enjoyed his frolics highly.
When the dessert came on, he very gravely
returned to stand sentinel at the pie, where
he was pelted with sugar-plums, till they
were piled up as high as his shoulders.

This adventure of the pie made Be-Be

LITTLE MEN. 59

more famous than ever. Painters took his
likeness, and poets made verses about him.
Other princes envied the duke the possession
of such a curiosity, and privately offered
large sums of money to any one who would
decoy him away. Sometimes the servants
of visiters, under the pretence of play, would
put him in their pockets ; or the sentinel, as
he ran along the gallery, would cover him
with his cloak ; or the postillions would coax
him to creep into their great boots, which
they would tie together, and sling over their
shoulders. He would let them play with
him a little in this way, but as soon as he
suspected something more serious than fun,
he would utter such shrill cries, that they
were glad to release him.

Stanislaus was, however, afraid that he
would be stolen, sooner or later. He there-
fore ordered a number of pages to follow
him wherever he went. Be-Be did not like
this. He had been so much accustomed to
run about the fields with his goose, that it
annoyed him not to be able to stir a step
without a sentinel at his^gide. He became
melancholy, and ill. The duke, in order to
divert his mind, ordered a little castle to be
built for him on wheels. It contained a par-
lour, sleeping chamber, dining hall, and even

60 MANIKINS ; OR,

a little miniature garden, with flowers, trees,
and fountains. The chairs, tables, beds, and
time-pieces, were all adapted to his size. A
small billiard-table, and a great variety of
games, were prepared for him. A collec-
tion of animals, extremely small of their kind,
were arranged in this pretty little hermitage.
Sparrows, linnets, and wren's, hopped about
in cages of ivory and silver ; a little grey-
hound, not much bigger than a squirrel, ran
from one room to another ; and the Empress
of Russia sent a pair of snow-white turtle
doves, no larger than the smallest species
of sparrows.

A company of well-behaved little children
was likewise formed for his amusement, and
called the Joyful Band. These affectionate
attentions made Be-Be very glad, and he
chattered thanks very earnestly, in his queer
little language. It was funny to see him re-
ceive his small guests at dinner, and imitate
the manners of a great man. He was ex-
tremely affectionate and gay, but he had
strict ideas of politeness and good order.
One day, a member of his little band became
too noisy in his play, and awakened the
duke, who was sleeping in his arm-chair
near by. Be-Be insisted that he should do
penance for his fault, by sitting on a foot-

LITTLE MEN. 61

stool at the door of his little palace, and eat-
ing his dinner alone.

On one occasion, a famous dwarf came
from Polish Russia to visit him. His name
was Count Boruwlaski. He measured just
eight inches when he was born, and at thir-
ty years old was only thirty-nine inches
high. His mother was very poor, and had
a large family of children. She gave him
to the Countess Humiecka, with whom he
travelled into various parts of Europe. In
Turkey, he was admitted into the seraglio,
and the women who live secluded there
were as much amused with him as with a
living doll. Everybody petted and caress-
ed him, and he was universally called Jou-
jou, the French word for plaything.

In Austria, he visited the empress, Maria
Theresa. Her daughter, Maria Antoinette,
afterward the unfortunate queen of France,
was then only six years old. The empress
drew a ring from her hand, and placed it
on the miniken finger of Joujou. At Paris,
he was received with great attention. A
wealthy gentleman there gave him a dinner,
at which all the plates, knives and forks, and
even the eatables, were adapted to his size.
In the course of his travels, he visited the
court of Stanislaus, and was introduced to

62 MANIKINS ; OR,

Be-Be. In the latter part of his life, he vis-
ited Lapland and Nova Zembla, where the
people crowded to see him night and day,
so that he could get no chance to sleep.
The savages devoutly thanked the sun for
showing them such a little man ; and he to
thank them played them tunes on his small
guitar. After many wanderings, he settled
in England, and lived to be an old man.

Be-Be received Joujou with his customary
politeness, and made his visit as pleasant as
possible. It must have been a funny sight
to see these little fairy men doing the hon-
ours to each other.

Be-Be was distinguished for neatness as
well as courtesy. One day, when he was
playing ball, he broke a glass lamp, and
spilled the oil on his clothes. He tried to
wipe it off, and seeing the spot spread, he
begged earnestly for a pair of scissors, to
cut it out. Being refused, he sobbed out,
" Oh, how wretched I am ! What will my
good friend say, when he sees me so dirty ?"

He was extremely generous. He had a
great many jewels and beautiful playthings
given him, but almost always gave them
away, to the children who visited him. He
liked nothing so well as a purse full of small
bright money ; for he delighted to walk on

LITTLE MEN. 63

the balcony, and throw it to poor children,
who came there to catch it. Sometimes, he
would roll up a crown in a paper with his
sixpences, and throwing it to the raggedest lit-
tle beggar, would cry out, " Catch it quick !
it is for you."

Whenever he had a gold piece given
him, he put it in a box and locked it up, to
send to his native village, for his dear bro-
ther Louis ; who, by his generosity, became
one of the richest farmers in the country.

Be-Be was mischievous sometimes, and
liked to trouble the pages, who were order-
ed to keep watch over him. One day, he
hid himself in the bottom of the kennel with
his greyhound ; and there the little rogue
remained eating and drinking with his play-
fellow the dog, all day and all night. The
page was scolded severely, and threatened
with dismissal. Be-Be, hearing him weep,
sprang out of his hiding-place, and embrac-
ing the knees of King Stanislaus, entreated
him to forgive the page, for he only was to
blame.

He was always remarkable for the loving
disposition, which characterized his infancy.
Among the boys who visited him, was a lit-
tle fellow about seven years old, named
Zizi. Be-Be was so fond of him, that he

64 manikins; or,

wanted to give him everything. He made
him a present of his little gold watch, not
bigger than a ten cent piece, containing his
miniature set with gems. This watch was
marked with only five hours, because the
little man could never learn to count higher
than five.

His favourite Zizi died of small-pox, after
a very short illness. They were afraid to
tell Be-Be, for fear his tender little heart
would break with grief. Every hour in the
day he would ask, " Where is Zizi ? Why
don't Zizi come?" He and Zizi had often
talked together about the goose and the
sheep that he loved so well ; and at last, he
took it into his head that Zizi had gone to
his native village, to bring the goose and
the sheep. Every day, he laid aside half of
his cake, fruit, and playthings, for his belov-
ed comrade ; and to the day of his death,
he always expected to see Zizi come back
with his old friends, the goose and the sheep.

When King Stanislaus went to Versailles,
to visit his daughter, he took Be-Be with
him. There, as elsewhere, he was a great
favourite. The ladies caressed him greatly,
and always wanted to have him in their
arms ; but if they attempted to carry
him out of sight of the king, he would call

LITTLE MEN. 65

out, " My good friend, the lady will carry
me away in her pocket!" and he would
struggle, till they released him, and let him
run back to Stanislaus.

The poor dwarf never seemed like him-
self after he returned from his journey. He
became very sad, wanted to be alone, and
wept much. Sometimes he would sit for
two whole days, without even changing his
position. He lost his appetite entirely. One
lark was enough for two dinners ; and in a
short time he could take nothing but a little
weak lemonade, and burnt sugar. His round,
blooming face wrinkled very fast, and though
not yet twenty-two, he looked like a very
old man. He begged most earnestly to see
the king before he died, but his benefactor
was then absent at Nantz, and they could
not gratify his wishes. He repeated his
name almost every minute ; and as he lay
in his mother's lap, and raised his dying eyes
to hers, his last words were, "Oh mother
dear, I wish I could kiss once more the hand
of my good friend."

When Stanislaus returned, he was deeply
affected to find that his little favourite was
dead. He caused his body to be embalmed,
and buried with much ceremony.

f 5

66 MANIKINS ; OR,

There was a famous English dwarf, nam
ed Jeffery Hudson, born in 1619. When
seven years old, he was only eighteen inches
high ; and he grew no taller than this till he
was thirty years old ; when he suddenly at-
tained the height of three feet and nine inches.
The Duke of Buckingham presented this
dwarf to Henrietta Maria, queen of Charles
the First. At her marriage feast, he was
brought upon the table in a cold pie, from
which he sprang forth at a given signal, to
the great amusement of the queen and her
guests. He did not bear the extreme indul-
gence with which he was treated, so well as
Be-be did. He became very petulant and
tyrannical, and disposed to quarrel with
every one who laughed at him. Being once
provoked at the mirthfulness of a young gen-
tleman, named Crofts, the foolish little fellow
challenged him to fight. The young gen-
tleman being much amused at the idea of
Jeffery's fighting a duel, came armed with a
squirt, instead of a pistol. This was merely
intended for fun; but the bad-tempered
dwarf became so angry, that he insisted upon
a real duel. They met on horseback, to
equalize their height as much as possible,
and at the first pistol-shot Mr. Crofts fell
dead. Poor little Jeffery was not wise

LITTLE MEN. 67

enough to know that this was much more
like dogs or game-cocks, than like men en-
dowed with reason and conscience. In the
time of Cromwell's revolution, he escaped
to France, to follow the fortunes of Queen
Henrietta. He met with a variety of adven-
tures. He was taken prisoner by the Dun-
kirkers, and at another time by a Turkish
pirate. He returned to England, in Charles
the Second's time, where he was imprisoned
on suspicion of being employed in some po-
litical intrigue. He died in prison at the
age of sixty-three.

Peter the Great, of Russia, had a passion
for dwarfs. He had a very little man and
a very little woman in his royal household ;
and when they were married, he collected
all the dwarfs throughout his vast empire,
to form a wedding procession. They were
ninety-three in number, and were paraded
through the streets of St. Petersburgh, in
the smallest possible carriages, drawn by the
smallest of Shetland ponies.

The most remarkable dwarf of modern
times is Charles S. Stratton, called General
Tom Thumb. He was born at Bridgeport,

68 MANIKINS .* OR,

Connecticut, in 1832. He was a healthy,
vigorous babe, and weighed nine pounds two
ounces when he was born. At five months
old, he weighed fifteen pounds ; but at that
time, from some unknown cause, he ceased
to grow ; and now, at the age of twelve
years, he is a little miniature man, only two
feet and one inch in height, and weighing
but fifteen pounds and two ounces. His
head is rather too large for his body, but his
limbs are well proportioned, and he has the
prettiest little feet and hands imaginable.
He has been taught to perform a variety of
exploits, and has been exhibited at nearly
all the museums in the United States. He
has a great variety of dresses, military, naval,
&c. It is extremely droll to see him dress-
ed up like Napoleon Bonaparte, and imitat-
ing his attitudes and motions, which he does
to perfection.

Dwarfs, generally, have feeble voices.
Tom Thumb's is weak and piping, like a
very little child ; but he sings a variety of
small songs in a very agreeable manner.
His boots and gloves are about large enough
for a good-sized doll, and his little canes
would answer for a small monkey. He
has a little carriage, about big enough for
pussy-cat to ride in ; and into this a small

LITTLE MEN.

69

dog is fastened, with a very complete little
harness. He has a house, too, about three
feet high, into which he walks to rest him-
self, when he is tired of dancing a hornpipe
for the amusement of spectators. He is a
very lively child, and very winning in his
manners. He makes a bow, and kisses his
tiny hand, in the genteelest manner possible.
He has now gone to Europe, where he is
very much caressed. Queen Adelaide pre-
sented him with a beautiful little gold watch,
no bigger than a shilling ; and Queen Vic-
toria was so pleased with his performances,
that she gave him a beautiful mother-of-pearl
toy, set in gold, with flowers worked in en-
amel, and adorned with precious stones.

GEORGE AND HIS DOG

eorge had a large and noble dog
U With hair as soft as silk ;
A few black spots upon his back,
The rest as white as milk.

And many a happy hour they had,
In dull or shining weather ;
For, in the house, or in the fields,
They always were together.

It was rare fun to see them race,
Through fields of bright red clover,

And jump across the running brooks,
George and his good dog Rover.

GEORGE AND HIS DOG. 71

The faithful creature knew full well
When master wished to ride ;

And he would kneel down on the grass,
While Georgy climbed his side.

They both were playing in the field,

When all at once they saw
A little squirrel on a stump,

With an acorn in his paw.

Rover sent forth a loud bow-wow,

And tried to start away ;
He thought to scare the little beast

Would be a noble play.

But George cried out, " For shame ! for
shame !

You are so big and strong,
To worry that poor little thing

Would be both mean and wrong."

The dog still looked with eager eye,
And George could plainly see,

It was as much as he could do,
To let the squirrel be.

The timid creature would have feared
The dog so bold and strong,

%

72 GEORGE AND HIS DOG.

But he seemed to know the little boy
Would let him do no wrong.

He peeped in George's smiling face,

And trusting to his care,
He kept his seat upon the stump,

And ate his acorn there.

He felt a spirit of pure love

Around the gentle boy,
As if good angels, hovering there,

Watched over him in joy.

And true it is, the angels oft
Good little George have led ;

They're with him in his happy play,
They guard his little bed.

They keep his heart so kind and true,
They make his eye so mild ;

For dearly do the angels love
A gentle little child.

THE SQUIRREL

AND HER LITTLE OKE8

boy was once going home
from school through the
woods. It was very early
in the spring time, and no-
thing green was to be seen,
save some moss on the edge
of a little brook, which ran
along over the stones, talking to itself. As
the boy went whistling along, with his satchel
of books, and a small tin pail with his dinner,
slung on a pole at his back, he saw by the •
new chips scattered about, that the wood-
cutters had been at work there, since morn-
ing. Looking round, he saw a large white
oak tree lying on the ground. Thinking to
make himself a whistle out of the green
twigs, he set down his satchel and pail, and
marched up to the tree. He soon discover.-
g

74 THE SQUIRREL

ed a large knot-hole in the trunk ; and, boy
like, he must needs peep into it. At first, he
saw nothing but a little hairy bunch ; but
presently something began to move, and he
saw that he had found a squirrel's nest.
Here was a treasure for a school-boy !
There were four little baby squirrels, their
eyes not yet opened, curled up together on
a nice warm bed of moss, in the old oak
tree. He took them out, and put them in
his tin pail, thinking to carry them home.
But the boy had a very kind heart under his
jacket ; and the kind heart began to say to
him, that when the mother of the squirrels
came home, she would be in great distress
to find her babies gone. So he packed them
all in the hole again, and hid himself in a
bush, that he might see what the old squir-
rel would do, when she came back and found
her house knocked down.

Before long, he saw a gray squirrel run-
ning along the stone wall, with a nut in her
mouth. She frisked down the wall, and
over the ground, as swift as a bird ; for she
was in a great hurry to see her children.
But when she came to the tree, she dropped
her nut, and looked round in astonishment.
She went smelling all about, then she mount-
ed the stump to take a survey of the coun-

AND HER LITTLE OXES. 75

try. There she stood a moment, on her
hind legs, and snuffed the air, with a look of
great wonder and distress. Whether her
sense of smell was so acute, that she discov-
ered her little ones near by, or whether she
remembered the familiar landscape, and the
bark of the tree she had climbed so often, 1
know not ; but she would not leave the spot.
Again and again, she mounted the stump,
stood erect, looked round keenly, and snuff-
ed the air.

At last, a lucky thought seemed to strike
her. She ran along the trunk of the fallen
tree, and found her hole. You may depend
upon it, there was great joy in the moss
cradle ! She staid a few minutes, long
enough to give the little ones their supper,
and then off she scampered on the stone
wall again. The boy followed in the direc-
tion she went, and hid himself where he
could watch. She came back shortly, took
one of her young ones in her mouth, and set
off at full speed, to the knot-hole of another
tree. She came back again and again, al-
most as swift as the wind, and never stopped
to take a moment's rest, till she had carried
all four of her little ones to their new home.
The boy followed her, being careful not to
go near enough to frighten her ; and he saw

76 THE SaUIRREL

her clamber up and place each one safely m
a knot-hole. Afterward, when he went to
drive the cows to and from pasture, he
always went round by that tree ; and when
he saw the happy mother and her four little
ones capering among the green leaves, or
sitting upright on the boughs, eating, after
their pretty fashion, he felt glad indeed that
he did not rob the poor squirrel, who had
been so careful of her young.

If the school-boy had known how to write
poetry, he might have told his daily expe-
rience in verse like this :

" I've seen the freakish squirrels drop
Down from their leafy tree ;
The little squirrels with the old-
Great joy it was to me !

And down unto the running- brook,

I've seen them nimbly go ;
And the bright water seemed to speak

A welcome kind and low.

The nodding plants they bowed their heads,

As if, in heartsome cheer,
They spoke unto those little things,

'Tis pleasant living here ! "

The same boy afterward traded with an-
other for a little squirrel, taken from its mo-
ther's nest before its eyes were open. He
made a bed of moss for it, and fed it very

AND HER LITTLE ONES. 77

tenderly. It seemed healthy and happy, but
never grew as large as other squirrels. He
did not put it in a cage ; for the kind-hearted
boy thought that little animals, made to run
and caper about in the green woods, could
not be happy shut up. He knew it was not
manly to be selfish about anything ; and so
he thought more of the squirrel's comfort,
than he did of his own grief, if it should run
away. Yet if he had lost his squirrel, he
would have cried most bitterly. There was
no danger. There is no cord so strong as
that of kindness. The pretty little creature
loved him too well to leave rum. She would
run after him, and come at his call, like a
kitten. While he was gone to school, she
would run off* to the woods, to a favourite
tree that stood near his path homeward ;
and there she would frisk round with the
other squirrels, or take a nap in a knot-hole.
If the weather was very warm, she would,
according to the comfortable fashion of squir-
rels, make herself a bed of twigs and green
leaves across a crotch of the boughs, and
sleep there. When her friend came from
school, he had only to call " Bun, Bun, Bun,"
as he passed the tree, and down she would
come, run up on his shoulder, and go home
with him for her supper.

78 THE saUJRREL.

If we always treated animals with tender-
ness, they would live with us in this free and
familiar way. Would it not be beautiful ?

I wish boys would learn to cultivate the
spirit of the gentle poet Cowper, who thus
addresses a little frightened hare, that took
refuge in his garden :

" Yes, thou mayest eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee ; thou mayest frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire secure
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed ;
For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged
All that is human in me, to protect
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love."

THE YOUNG ARTIST

John Paul was born in a
village of Massachusetts.
His lather died when he
was very small, and his mo-
ther was poor. They lived
far away from the road, in a
little old house, half hidden
with trees, lilacs, rose-bushes, and honey-
suckles. All round the steps, peeped the
bright little hardy flowers called Heart's
Ease, Ladies' Delight, or Johnny-Jump-up.
On an old ppst by the door, was a flower-
pot containing a Perriwinkle, or Trailing
Myrtle, its long green branches hanging al-
most to the ground, dotted with purple blos-
soms. At one corner of the old brown
house, hung an Otaheitan geranium, in a
basket, over which its light pendant foliage
drooped gracefully, and moved about in the
summer wind. At the other front corner of

80 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

the eaves, the barn-swallows had come to
build for many a year. In the spring time
their happy twittering might be heard all
day long, as they went back and forth for
little tufts of hair and wool.

The widow was fond of flowers, and lov-
ed dearly to see the still moonlight on the
brook, and the sunshine on the -distant hills.
If she had -been educated, she might have
been a painter, or a poet. Without know-
ing it, she had made a sweet little picture,
with her rose-bushes, her trailing myrtle,
and her swinging basket of geraniums. Peo-
ple do not need to be rich, in order to have
beautiful things. When a mind loves the
beautiful things of nature, it makes all around
it beautiful ; and the birds, and the flowers,
and the bees, all come to give their help.

The widow rejoiced in her children's love
for flowers. John and Maria had small gar-
den-beds of their own ; and even little Fanny,
though not three years old, would stick cow-
slips and dandelions in the sand, and call it
her " darden." Great joy had they all, when,
in the very early spring-time, they found the
first Blood-Root blossom, or fragrant sprig
of Wild Lilac, to bring home to their dear
mother.

In rainy weather, their mother, if she was

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 81

not too busy, would sometimes make for
them pretty little dogs and rabbits of yellow
wax, which answered for playthings many
a day. But these good little children dia
not play all the time. They were very in-
dustrious and helpful. Little Fanny had
been lame from her infancy, and her brother
and sister delighted to tend upon her. They
might often be seen trudging over the hills,
to the distant village store ; John with baby
in his arms, Maria with a big basket, and
their little dog Pink running before, bark-
ing at all the geese and hens he met. Maria
had a very sweet voice. When John was
seated on the door-step, making hemlock
brooms for his mother, and Fanny sat be-
side him, sticking the green sprigs into
cracks, and Pink lay On the grass, with
his nose up, watching for flies, she would
sing to them like a bird, while she was help-
ing mother wash the cups.

One day, when they were thus employed,
a young gentleman who was rambling in
the fields, heard her warbling voice, and came
toward the house. He was an artist, and
the beauty of the old moss-grown dwelling,
embosomed in vines and roses, with the busy
group about the door, at once arrested his
attention. John heard somebody call Fannv
6

82 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

a pretty little darling, and looking up saw a
tall, pale-looking stranger. After playing
with the dog, and talking a little with the
children, the traveller said the country was
so beautiful that he had wandered farther
than he intended, and with their mother's
permission, he would gladly walk in and rest
himself. He received a cordial welcome.
The widow dusted a chair for him, John
took his hat, and Maria brought berries and
fresh milk to refresh him. He was very
much pleased with this kind, cheerful family,
and they were charmed with him. " I will
be bound, sir," said the widow, " that the
children always like you, wherever you go."
He acknowledged that he was generally a
favourite with little folks, for the simple rea-
son that he loved them very much. Before
he left, he told them he was staying at the
village tavern, to take sketches of the country
round about, and that he should like it ex-
tremely, if they would let him board with
them a few weeks. The widow blushed,
and said she was poor, and lived in too small
a way to suit gentlemen. But the children
cried out, " Oh do, mother, do ; " and the
stranger said, " Your small way of living
seems to me very beautiful." So it was
agreed that he might bring his portmanteau

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 83

the next day, and they would do the best
they could to make him comfortable.

This visit added greatly to the happiness
of the children, and had an important effect
on their future lives. Mr. Page had read a
great deal, and he told them much that they
never knew before. He drew funny little
faces, which greatly amused John. He cut
paper figures for Fanny, and taught Maria
new songs. From the twisted knotty boughs
of an old oak, he fashioned a curious garden-
chair, with the moss and bark on. John said
the chair looked as if it were tipsy, and
Maria said it was so twisted, that it seemed
to be making up a face. This odd-looking
chair, placed under the shade of a big tree
by the side of the house, was Mr. Page's
favourite seat. There he sat, finishing the
landscapes that he sketched in his rambles.
John, who had never seen any pictures, ex-
cept in his 'spelling-book, used to gaze with
wonder and veneration, when he saw hills,
rivers, animals, and flowers, appear to start
into life under his hand. His eyes bright-
ened with joy when he obtained leave to
roam in the woods with this new friend, or
to accompany him in a light little boat, as
he dodged about among the numerous green
islands up and down the river. On such

84 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

occasions, little Fanny grew very impatient
for them to come back, and Maria was care-
ful to have their supper neatly spread, and
everything looking bright, clean, and cheer-
ful. "

When the artist had been there about
three weeks, he one morning surprised them
with a picture of their own house, with the
bushes and vines, the hanging geranium, the
crooked garden-chair, and the children just
starting off with dog and basket. John was
absolutely beside himself with joy. He
jumped up, and clapped his hands, and
jumped again. "Oh, mother!" exclaimed
he, " shouldn't you think our Maria was just
going to speak ? and was there ever any-
thing so like as little Fanny 1 and as for the
dog, he is best of all. I do believe if Mr.
Page had put a pig in the picture, Pink would
bark at it."

The artist was much gratified by these
expressions of childish joy and wonder, and
with the more quiet pleasure manifested by
their good mother. He said it was painful
to him to leave them ; for he had never seen
a place which he felt so strongly inclined to
make his home. But business called him
away, and he bade them farewell, with a
hearty promise that if he lived and prosper-

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 85

ed, he would try to do something for his
favourite John. The poor boy had learned
so much from him, and loved him so well,
that he was too sad to attend to anything
for several days after his departure. Maria
often observed him standing by the mantel-
piece, with his eyes fixed on a plate of
peaches, which his friend had painted for
him. His mother noticed that he often sat
in silence, as if in deep thought ; and even
little Fanny said that brother John did not
laugh and play as he used to do.

The fact was, this good boy had long had
an earnest wish to do something for the sup-
port of his mother and sisters ; and now a
new thought had entered his brain. He
could mould little rabbits in bee's wax, almost
as well as his mother ; and he began to won-
der within himself whether he could ever
paint as well as Mr. Page. When he went
across the fields, he noticed more than ever
how the bright sunlight struck across the
hills, and left them half in shadow. When
an apple or a peach was placed on the table,
he observed that the light fell brightly on
one point, and he guessed that was the rea-
son why Mr. Page put a white spot on the
peaches he painted. He did not tell his
thoughts to his mother and sisters, for fear

86 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

they would think him a foolish boy. One
day when he was going to the village to get
a pair of shoes mended, his sisters, as usual,
prepared to accompany him ; but to their
great surprise, he told them he wished to go
alone. Maria did not complain, but when
he had gone, she sat down and cried, and
poor little lame Fanny cried. with her. Their
mother tried to comfort them, and told them
doubtless John had some good reason ; but
they had been so accustomed to go every-
where with their brother, that they thought
it very unkind in him to choose to go alone.
Had Maria known his motives, she would
not have been thus grieved. The fact was,
John had collected all his money to buy a
paint-box and brushes ; and he wanted to
keep it a profound secret, till he had tried
his skill in painting.

About a mile off, their lived a wealthy
gentleman, named Loring, of whom Mr.
Page borrowed the boat for his excursions
on the river. He had a son Thomas, with
whom John had struck up an acquaintance,
as he went to and fro with messages. Tho-
mas took a great fancy to the joyful, well-
mannered boy, and often loaned him books
and playthings. John remembered having
seen a paint-box in his room, with the cakes

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 87

of paint somewhat broken ; and he thought
he might possibly buy it with what money
he had. He went' to Mr. Loring's, and stat-
ed his wish so eagerly, that Thomas laughed
heartily, and offered to give it to him. "But,
do tell me," said he, " why you are so very
anxious for a paint-box." John blushed and
stammered, and finally ventured to tell the
hopes he had dared to form. His friend,
instead of laughing at him, as he expected,
entered very warmly into his plans, and told
him he would do all he could to help him.
Thus encouraged, John returned home with
a light heart. He hid his paint-box in the
trunk of an old tree, and kept the secret to
himself. But he felt so happy, that he jump-
ed about, and made faces at Fanny, and
kissed Maria, and made Pink bark, till he
set them all a laughing at his pranks.

Next morning, the enthusiastic boy rose
very early, and having finished all his work,
started for school an hour and a half earlier
than usual. He stopped at the tree, and
took out his precious box. His first attempt
was to sketch a bunch of acorns lying on
the ground ; and though the drawing was
rude, it was done remarkably well for a boy,
who had had no instruction in the art. He
was so occupied with his delightful employ-

88 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

ment, that he arrived at school nearly an
hour too late. The teacher had many wild
boys, and was obliged to make very strict
rules. When John confessed that he brought
no excuse from his mother for his tardiness,
he ordered him to stand in the middle of the
room for an hour. John had never before
met with any disgrace at school, and he was
very much mortified. For a little while, he
resolved not to touch his brushes again ; but
when he passed the tree on his way home,
he could not forbear stopping to look at his
acorns ; and when he had looked at them,
he was tempted to try whether a few oak
leaves would not improve them. Again he
was so much occupied with his painting, that
the school hour passed unheeded ; and, dread-
ing to go too late again, he spent the whole
afternoon in the woods. But John was too
honest a boy to feel satisfied because he was
not found out in doing wrong. He acknow-
ledged to his mother that he was making
something, in which he was so deeply inter-
ested, that he had unintentionally gone to
school too late, and had been punished for
it ; that he did the same thing in the after-
noon, and then was afraid to go at all. His
mother was very sorry, for it was the first
time she had ever known him stay away

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 89

from school ; but she knew her son so well,
that she felt sure he had not been employed
about anything wrong. She told him that
his honesty in confessing his fault was a great
comfort to her ; that she felt the fullest con-
fidence in him, and should not inquire what
he had been doing, if he wished to keep it a
secret. Being thus treated like a man, made
him feel like a man ; and he answered very
warmly, " Thank you, mother. You shall
know the secret very soon, and I promise
not to be late at school again."

It required some strength to keep this pro-
mise ; for work and school left a very small
portion of the day for his favourite employ-
ment. But he never again neglected his
studies, or had occasion to ask his mother
for a written excuse for absence. By rising
very early, and working hard, he generally
found about two hours a day to make draw-
ings. In the course of eight or ten weeks,
he improved so much, that he thought he
might venture to have Pink sit for his por-
trait. The dog, altogether unconscious of
the honour intended him, followed his young
master into the woods, and seated himself
on a log, with his nose turned up in the air,
as he was directed to do. John resolved that,
if he succeeded in making a good Jikeness

h

90 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

he would carry it home, and surprise his
mother and sisters with it. It was a long
time before he succeeded in pleasing him-
self. The poor animal jumped down two
or three times, and whined when ordered back
again, to sit with his paws folded up, while
the patient artist sketched and rubbed out,
sketched and rubbed out, fifty .times over.

John's head was so full of this business, that
he found it very difficult to attend to his les-
sons at school. His teacher could not ima-
gine what was the matter with the boy.
One day, rie gave him a simple sum in the
rule of three, which he could easily have
done, had his mind been on arithmetic. Two
hours passed, however, and the sum was not
finished. The teacher stepped that way,
and looking over John's shoulder, saw in the
very middle of the figures, the picture of a
dog tossing up his head, as if to catch flies.
The young artist was so intent upon finish-
ing the bushy tail, that he was not aware of
his master's presence, till he heard himself
spoken to very severely. When called upon
to give a reason for such conduct, he hung
his head, and said he had forgotten his sum.
The teacher did not believe it ever did any
good to whip his scholars ; but he was seri-
ously offended, and told him he must quit

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 91

the school, unless he could be more atten-
tive..

Poor John thought he had a great deal of
trouble in trying to be a painter ; but he was
not discouraged. On his way home, he
stopped at the tree, and put a finishing touch
to his dog's picture. Thomas Loring was
there waiting for him, according to promise.
Never were two boys more delighted ; one
with the picture, and the other with the
praises bestowed upon it. In high glee, they
carried it home ; and after much managing,
and many sly glances between them, they
succeeded in fastening it up against the wall,
without being observed. Little Fanny was
the first one to perceive it, and instantly call-
ed out, " Do look at Pinky ! There he is,
sitting on a log, to catch flies." Maria and
her mother both exclaimed at once, " I de-
clare it does look exactly like our Pink — the
white spot on his neck, and all ! Where did
you get it, John ? "

Thomas, with sparkling eyes, proclaimed
that their brother painted it himself. A glow
of surprise and delight went over the good
mother's countenance ; but an instant after,
she said, half doubtingly, " Is he making fun
of us, my son 1 " " Indeed 1 did do it, mo-
ther," he replied. She threw her arms about
his neck, and kissed him.

92 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

The famous Benjamin West said that hi3
mother's kiss made him a painter. John
Paul might have said the same ; for he never
forgot the joy his mother manifested when
she saw his first picture, and it helped him to
persevere in overcoming many difficulties.

Thomas'took the greatest possible interest
in John's improvement. One day, as he was
going home from school, he met him at the
memorable tree, and surprised him with a
present of oil-colours, canvass, and all the
utensils needed by an artist. There happen-
ed to be a vacation about that time, and the
boys resolved to spend much of it in the
woods. But eager as John was to paint, he
never neglected to pick up chips, chop wood,
and bring water sufficient for his mother's
use, before he set out on these pleasant ex-
cursions. Mr. Loring had heard such a good
character of John, and was so much pleased
with his frank countenance, and modest man-
ners, that he was pleased to have his son
spend most of his vacation with him. Never
were happier holidays than the friends had.
Sometimes Maria and Fanny carried their
dinner to them in the woods, and sometimes
John's kettle was packed in the morning,
with bread and cheese, and dough-nuts, in
real farmer's style. It was a pleasant sight

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 93

to see the two healthy, happy lads march off
in the cool bright morning, Pink capering at
their heels, and Maria, with Fanny in her
arms, following to the very edge of the wood,
to say good-bye.

One day, when they had been at work
chopping brush all the forenoon, John re-
solved to spend the afternoon in sketching a
landscape from where they stood. He pro-
posed to have an early dinner, and that
Thomas should amuse himself with finding
nuts, or skipping stones in the little pond,
while he was painting. " No danger but I
will find enough to do," said the cheerful
Thomas ; and away he went, to drive some
stakes into the ground, and find a piece of
board large enough for a table. His pocket-
handkerchief answered for a table-cloth, on
which the provisions were spread with much
taste, ornamented with green leaves and
acorns. John, who was up in a tree, cutting
dry branches, repeatedly called out to know
what he was doing. " You'll know by and
by," said Thomas, as he ran off with the
keg, to fill it with fresh water at the spring.
On his way back, he called out, in an exult-
ing tone, " Come down now, John. Dinner
is all ready." " It's a mighty great thing to
get our dinner ready, to be sure," said John

94 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

" you had better imitate the African prince,
who, before eating, causes proclamation to
be made that all the world are invited to
come and eat of his yam." He hastened,
however, to obey the summons. But when
Thomas came into the open space, whence
their rustic table was visible, he stopped in
utter consternation. There stood the mis-
chievous dog, munching the last bit of cheese,
while board and table-cloth, with its pretty
wreath of oak-leaves and acorns, lay pros-
trate on the ground ! Being naturally a pas-
sionate boy, he caught up a stick and chased
poor Pink, who scampered off with the cheese
in his mouth. John understood at a glance
how the case was ; and there he stood by
the overturned table, with his hands on his
knees, lau^hinsr till his cheeks ached. Tho-
mas soon came back, his face red with vexa-
tion and hard running, and throwing down his
stick, exclaimed, w The plaguy dog ! I wish
he had been to Bantam ! " But when he saw
John shaking his sides, he could not forbear
laughing too. " Oh, it was worth forty din-
ners," said John, " to see you look as you
did, when you took up that stick to chase the
dog ! I do believe I could paint that scene,
it was so funny !" Thomas thought it was
a happy idea ; and the young artist ventured

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 95

to undertake the task. Vacation passed by,
and several weeks more, before the picture
was finished ; but when it was done, it was
really a remarkable production for a lad of
his age. There were great faults in the
drawing, and the likeness was not very
good ; but the expression of disappointment
and vexation, and the dog impudently shak-
ing the cheese in his mouth, were enough to
make any one laugh.

Thomas was going to spend his long va-
cation in Boston, with his father, and he in-
sisted upon carrying the picture with him.
He had not been there a week, before a let-
ter came from Mr. Loring, urgently inviting
John to come to Boston, and promising to
pay the expenses of the journey. This was
a great event in the life of a country lad,
who had never been out of sight of his native
village. The whole family were busily oc-
cupied with fitting him out. Maria, though
she had much to do, found time to knit a
pretty purse for Thomas, and make a neat
little melon-seed basket for his sister. These
were the only presents they had to send ;
but they loaded John's memory with kind
messages, and half-happy, half-tearful, they
saw him depart on this important visit.

When the young rustic first entered Mr

96 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

Loring' s elegant city mansion, he was daz-
zled and almost overpowered, by the rich
furniture, the statues, and the paintings. But
Thomas was so rejoiced to see him, and Mr.
Loring put his hand on his head so affection-
ately, and bade him welcome in such a kind
voice, that he soon felt it was only another
kind of home. As for politeness, John had
no occasion to learn it as an art ; for the
modest and the gentle are polite by nature.

A few days after his arrival, Mr. Loring
proposed to the boys to accompany him to
the Athenaeum, where a large collection of
pictures are exhibited. Our self-taught artist,
who had seen no pictures, was struck dumb
with wonder. Had a stranger seen him
staring round, he might have thought him a
stupid boy. He staid very long, and even
when the dinner-hour arrived, was extreme-
ly reluctant to go. As he passed near the
stairs, he saw Mr. Loring shake hands with
a gentleman, who said to him, " Did you say,
sir, that this spirited little sketch was done
by a country boy, who had received no in-
struction 1 " * " I did," he replied. " May I
ask his name ? " The voice sounded familiar
to John's ear, and his heart began to beat.
r' He is an old acquaintance of yours," an*

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 07

swered Mr. Loring, smiling. " No other
than John Paul, the son of our neighbour in
the fields. And here he is, to answer for him-
self." The meeting was a joyful one. Some
one had placed in Mr. Page's hands the picture
of the dog and the spoiled dinner ; and he
was both surprised and delighted to find that
it was the production of his little rural friend.
John blushed, and looked happy, and said
modestly, that he sometimes hoped that he
might one day become an artist ; but if he
ever did, all the thanks would be due to the
kind stranger, who first showed him how
pictures were made. Mr. Page afterward
pointed out to him the faults of his drawing,
and impressed it upon his mind, that though
remarkable for a boy, it was still very im-
perfect. John had good sense enough to
receive this instruction with even more thank-
fulness than he did the praise.

Mr. Loring was so much pleased with his
modest deportment, and with his eagerness
to improve, that he paid one of the best
teachers, to instruct him in perspective. The
art of perspective consists in drawing va-
rious objects in such a manner as to make
the distances appear what they really are
in nature, though the piece of paper is much
too small actually to contain such distances^

i 7

98 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

The inside of a very large church may be
represented oil a sheet of letter-paper ; and
this effect is produced entirely by drawing
the lines according to certain rules. The
teacher had a good many curious specimens
of perspective. When John entered his
room, and looked through a small hole in a
screen, as he was requested, he saw a pretty
stair-case, winding, winding away, till it was
lost in the distance. Through another hole,
he saw a piano, one pedal of which seemed
to have been slightly pressed down by the
foot that rested on it. Through another, he
saw the interior of a kitchen, with a cabbage
cut in two lying on the table ; an old basket
just ready to tip offof tjje little shelf on which
it stood ; a towel hanging on a nail, &c. In
another place, was to be seen a pretty lit-
tle velvet ottoman, carelessly covered with
cards, as if a child had been playing there.
Some of the cards had fallen on the floor,
and others looked as if a breath would make
them fall.

"Are they not worth looking at?" asked
Thomas.

* They are pretty indeed," replied John ;
" but the stairs and footstools in your father's
house are a great deal handsomer. I don't
see why these should be kept for a show."

THE VOUXG ARTIST. 99

Thomas laughed heartily, and told him there
were no such things there, as winding stairs,
piano, basket, or ottoman. They were all
painted on the wall ; but drawn so correct-
ly, according to the rules of perspective, that
they appeared exactly like real furniture.
The teacher then came forward, and told
them that there was one real article among
the painted ones, and if either of them could
tell, at one guess, which it was, he would
give him a handsome penknife. They both
tried, but neither of them guessed right.
When John was informed that Mr. Loring
had employed this gentleman to teach him
the rules of perspective, he did not know
how to express his gratitude ; but in his own
mind, he resolved to do it by making the
most rapid improvement possible.

On their way home, the boys met Mr.
Page, who invited them to go with him to
see an engraver. John had a very imper-
fect idea how engravings were made, and
he had a great curiosity to see it done.
When they entered the room, Mr. Page
pointed out to him a large plate of steel,
with fine lines cut ail over it. He saw that
there were trees and children, but he could
not clearly make out what it was, till the
engraver held up a sheet of paper, and told

100 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

him it was an engraving taken from that
plate, after the proper ink had been rolled
over it. John gazed in astonishment ; for
there stood their little old house in the fields,
with the trailing geranium, the crooked gar-
den-chair, himself, and Fanny in his arms,
Maria with her big basket, and Pink caper-
ing round them! Mr. Page 'smiled at his
look of surprise, and asked him if he didn't
remember the picture he painted, while he
boarded at their cottage. " Indeed I do,
sir," replied the enthusiastic boy ; " for that
picture was the first thing that made me
want to be a painter." Mr. Page patted him
on the head affectionately, and told him he
should have one of the engravings, hand-
somely framed, to carry to his good mother.
After a delightful visit of six weeks, John
went home, with wonders enough to talk
about all winter. He was more diligent
than ever to improve himself, both in his
studies and his drawings ; but he never neg-
lected to perform every little service he
could, for his mother and sisters. " I should
have been perfectly happy in Boston," said
he, " if I had not often thought how you
would miss me ; and that perhaps Maria
would be tired lugging Fanny about ; and
your arms would ache bringing water from

THE YOUNG ARTIST. 101

the well, for washing." His mother kissed
him, and said, " I am glad, my son, that all
the praise you have had, and all the fine
things you have seen, have not made you
selfish, or forgetful of your daily duties."

" I would never touch pencil or brush
again, if I thought they would make me grow
selfish, lazy, or proud," replied the warm-
hearted boy.

In the summer, Mr. Loring and his family
were again in the country, and the boys had
happy times together. When they returned
to Boston, in the autumn, he proposed to
take John with him, to attend school with
his son. The mother, though sad to part
with him, consented. with a grateful heart.
But John hesitated, and the tears stood in
his eyes. "Should you not like to go?"
inquired Mr. Loring. " I should indeed,
sir," replied the good boy ; " but my mother
has need of somebody to chop wood, and
draw water, and bring home stores from the
village ; and I am afraid it would be selfish
to go."

** No, my good child," said his mother ;
"the best way to help me, is to improve
yourself."

" And you know," said Thomas, " that
you and 1 are going to make a nice little
wagon of willow twigs, and a good strong

102 THE YOUNG ARTIST.

sled for Fanny, so that Maria will not neea
to carry her in her arms."

" So we will," said John ; " and perhaps
I can sell some of my drawings, and those
little things cut in paper, which your father
likes so much ; and if I go, I will hire Tom
White to come up every day to see that
mother has wood and water, and that the
snow is shoveled out of her paths. I do wish
postage was not so dear ; for I should like
to write a letter home every day.*'

The good little fellow kept his word. If
he had been thirty years old, he could not
have been more thoughtful in taking care
for his mother and sisters. He continues to
improve very fast, and some people think he
will make one of the best artists in the coun-
try. The strongest desire of his heart is to
be able to earn enough to put his sisters to
some good school. Maria and Fanny are
as busy as bees, braiding straw for the same
purpose. " I do not want my brother to
work for us all the time," said the noble girl.
"I will earn my own living, and I will help
to support our dear mother, when she grows
old."

" And I will help, too," said little Fanny.

"God bless you all, my good children,"
said the happy mother ; and they were
blessed.

<MX

gg## W

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

Birds are in the forest old,
Building in each hoary tree ;

Birds are on the green- hills,
Birds are bv the sea.''

il Mark it well, within, without!

No tool had she that wrought; no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join; her little beak was all;
And jet how neatly finished !"

id you ever see a bird's
nest, my young reader ? I
dare say you have, and
have greatly wished that
you could watch the pretty
little creature, while she"
made it. There are a great
variety of nests. Some birds make them

104 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

with much more neatness and ingenuity than
others. There are the Ground-Builders, the
Platform Builders, the Mining-Birds, the
Mason-Birds, the Carpenter-Birds, the Bas-
ket-making-Birds, the Dome-Builders, the
Cementers, the Weaver-Birds, trie Tailor-
Birds, and the Felt-making Birds.

Birds that build on the earth; or the floor,
are called Ground-Builders. The Redbreast,
the pretty little Song Sparrow, and the Yel-
low-winged Sparrow, build their nice little
nests of dried grass, lined with horse-hair,
close to the root of some protecting bush, or
under the shelter of a high tuft of grass.
The swamp Sparrow, and other little birds
that love watery places, make their nests of
wet grass, rushes, and sea-moss, often in the
midst of a bunch of rank grass, surrounded
by water.

The famous Eider-Duck, from which the
warm eider-down is obtained, for our hoods
and cloaks, builds near the sea-shore, under
a Juniper bush, or a bundle of dry sea- weed.
They make a rough matress of dry grass
and sea-weed, over which the good mother
spreads a bed for her little ones, of the finest
and softest down, plucked from her own
breast. She heaps it up, so as to form a
thick puffed roll round the edge ; and when

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 105

she is obliged to go away in'search of food,
she pulls the roll down, and carefully spreads
it over the eggs, to keep them warm till she
returns.

This down is so very light and warm that
it brings a high price. One nest generally
contains about half a pound, which seJls for
two dollars. In some parts of Greenland
and Iceland, these nests are so thick, that
you can scarcely walk near the sea-shore
without treading on them. People steal the
down, and the poor mother again plucks her
breast, and patiently lines the nest anew.
If again robbed, and she has no more down
to give, the father-bird plucks his breast to
line a cradle for his family. These birds
often build in places so hard to get at, that
men are let down by ropes, over steep pre-
cipices, to rob their nests of the precious
down.

Birds that do not shape a hollow nest, but
simply strew their materials on a flat sur-
face, are called Platform-builders. The Ring
Dove, or Wood Pigeon, merely lays a pile
of twigs and leaves on the branches of an
oak or fir tree. The Eagle builds his rude,
strong nest of large sticks and sods of earth
on the ledge of some high precipice. Storks
spread twigs and straw on the roofs of houses,

]06 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

•

the towers of old churches, and the columns
of ruined temples. Almost every pillar
among the ruins of Persepolis, in Persia,
contains a stork's nest. In Bagdad, and
other cities of Asiatic Turkey, nearly all the
towers of the mosques are surmounted by a
stork's nest ; and the large bird, stretching
up her long neck, looks like a carved pinna-
cle or ornament. The ancients considered
the stork sacred, and in all modern countries
visited by these birds, they are viewed with
great tenderness. This is partly owing to
their usefulness in destroying reptiles and
vermin, and partly because they are so faith-
ful and affectionate to each other. In win-
ter, they go south, to Arabia, Egypt, and
other warm countries ; but the same mates
return, year after year, to the same nests.
In Germany and S-pain, many families know
their own particular storks, and the storks
know them. It is considered great good
luck to have them build on the house roof.
In marshy districts, where they are particu-
larly useful in destroying reptiles, the inhab-
itants often fasten an old cart-wheel on the
top of a strong high post, and the, storks are
almost always sure to spread their nests
upon it. The Turks hold them in peculiar
veneration ; and the storks understand their

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 107

attachment so well, that in cities abounding
with foreigners, they will single out the Turk-
ish houses to build upon. When the Greeks
were at war with the Turks, they were un-
manly enough to show their hatred by kill-
ing the storks. When remonstrated with
for their cruelty, they answered, " It is a vile
Turkish bird, and will never build on the
house of a Greek." But if they had loved
and protected the birds, I dare say they
would have nestled on their houses.

Mining birds are those that scoop out
nests in the ground. Bank Swallows cling
with their sharp claws to the side of a sandy
bank, and peck at it with their hard bills, as
a miner would with a pick-axe. They bore
little winding galleries two or three feet into
the bank, slope them upward to keep out the
rain, and at the end, place a nice little bed
of hay and feathers. These birds live toge-
ther in large flocks. Sometimes the face of
a sand bank will be entirely covered with
the round holes by which they enter their
nests.

Owls, Puffins, and Penguins, burrow deep
holes under ground, with many turnings and
windings. They dig with their strong sharp
bills, and scrape out the rubbish with their1
feet. In some unfrequented places, they

108 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

bore so many holes in the loose sandy soil,
that it caves in, when a traveller attempts to
walk over it. No doubt they are very neigh-
bourly in such cases, and lend each other
their houses, till repairs can be made.

Mason birds build with mud and clay,
moistened by a kind of glutinous liquid from
their own throats. Cliff Swallows go in
flocks, and fasten a whole settlement of such
nests under a projecting ledge of rock, or
under the eaves of a house. They look like
rough little jugs glued against the wall, with
the open mouth outward for an entrance.
Within, they are lined with dried grass.
Though they have no shovels to mix their
mortar, and no barrow7s to carry their sand,
these industrious little creatures finish their
houses in the course of three days.

The Window Swallow is so called because
she likes to place her nest in the corners
formed by the brick or stone work of win-
dows. She makes it of mud or clay, with
little bits of broken straw kneaded in, to
make it tough. As she builds against an
upright wall, without anything to stand on,
she is obliged to cling tight with her sharp
claws, and steady herself by pressing her
tail against the wall. In this way, she lays
a foundation, by plastering her materials

HOW THE BIRD3 MAKE THEIR NESTS. 109

against the brick or stone. She frequently
goes away, to leave her masonry a chance
to dry ; and when it becomes hard enough
not to fall by its own weight, she adds a lit-
tle more. People sometimes place scallop
shells near their windows, to induce the so-
ciable little creatures to come and build.
They often nestle in them ; but, for fear of
a tumble, they are always careful to make
a substantial ridge of masonry underneath
the shell. A pair of these birds built, for
two successive years, on the handles of a
pair of garden shears, stuck into the boards
of an outhouse. They line their little cra-
dles with straw and feathers, or moss inter-
woven with wool.

The Barn Swallows, of this country, are
as universal favourites as the Window Swal-
lows are in England. They build among
the rafters and beams of barns and sheds,
and fly in and out when the farmer is tend-
ing his cows, without seeming the least afraid.
They make a plaster of clay and bits of fine
straw, and in some snug corner of the rafters
they fashion a little cup-shaped nest, warmly
lined with fine bits of hay, hair, and feathers.

" Often from the careless back
Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills
Pluck hair and wool ; and oft, when unobserved,

110 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS

Steal from the barn a straw : till soft and warm,
Clean and complete, their habitation grows."

Sometimes twenty or thirty swallows will
build side by side, in the same barn. They
never quarrel, but seem to live together in
most happy friendship. I once watched a
pair of swallows, while they were making
their nest, and feeding their young. It was
great joy to me to hear their happy voices,
as they flew in and out with straws and
feathers. The father-bird was very kind
and attentive to his mate. When he found
a particularly large and downy feather, he
would bring it to her in a great hurry, and
pour forth a gush of song, as if his little heart
were brimful of love and joy.

But the neatest nest is made by the Song-
Thrush. In some hawthorn-hedge, holly-
bush, or silver-fir, she lays a foundation of
feathery green moss, which she fashions into
a rounded wall, by means of grass stems and
bits of straw. Round the edge, she makes
a thick band, to keep all in place. When
the frame is completed, she lays on the in-
side a thin coating of yellow plaster, which
is hard, water-proof, and as smooth and pol-
ished as a tea-cup.

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE TUEli! NJSSTS. Hi

NEST OF THE SONG THRUSH.

In South America, a bird, called the Baker-
bird, makes a nest shaped like a bakers oven,
on the leafless branch of some tree, a high
post, or a crucifix. It is made of mortar.
which the birds carry in their bills, in small
pellets, about as big as a filbert. The inte-
rior is divided into two rooms, by a partition

112 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

of the same mason-work. A bed of dried
grass is spread for the eggs. These nests
last more than one season, ^nd are so con-
venient that swallows, parroquets, and other
birds, are apt to go in and take possession,
and the builder has trouble to drive them
away.

You have probably seen, in museums, tall
scarlet birds from Africa, called Flamingoes.
These birds build, in the marshes, hillocks
of mud and slime, as high as their long legs.
The base is broad, and a little hollow is left
at top for their eggs, which they hatch stand-
ing. They look awkwardly enough, strad-
dling across their mud hillocks.

The Carpenter-birds cut places for them-
selves in the trunks of trees. The strongest
and most active of them are the Wood-
peckers, of which there are several species.
They have short bills, very sharp and hard.
When they find a suitable tree, the father-
bird begins to cut a hole, as round and smooth
as if made by a carpenter's tool. While he
rests, the mother does her share. They
carefully carry away all the chips they make ;
probably to avoid drawing attention to the
nest. The entrance is just big enough for
the bird to pass through. It slopes down-
ward, and terminates in a sizeable little room,

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 113

as neat as if finished by a cabinet-maker
Some species make it eighteen or twenty
inches deep, others three or four feet. But
notwithstanding the pains they take to place
their little ones in safety, an ugly snake some-
times gets in and eats them up ; and if a
naughty boy pokes in a stick, to disturb the
poor little woodpeckers, he sometimes starts
out a great black snake.

The House- Wren is a great pester to the
Woodpecker. Though a very small bird, she
is very noisy, pert, and mischievous. If she
finds a nice little nest of the Blue Bird, in the
hole of an apple-tree, or among the box in
the garden, she watches till blue bird is
absent, and then pulls her nest to pieces, as
fast as her little bill can work. When a
woodpecker begins his house, she watches
till she thinks he has made a hole deep enough
to suit her purpose, and then, while he has
gone to carry off his chips, the impudent
thing walks in and takes possession. I once
saw a very amusing contest between these
birds. The wren stole a nicely chisseled
hole, and began to make her nest. While
she was gone for food, the woodpecker came
back, and pitched all her twigs and feathers
out of doors. The wren kept up a shrill
scolding about it, and as soon as the wood-

k 8

114 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

pecker left her hole, she carried back all the
straw and feathers. But the moment she
left her stolen tenement, the woodpecker
tossed them all out again. Birds of various
kinds and sizes gathered round, to witness
the quarrel, and made as loud a chattering
about it, as if they had called an extra ses-
sion of Congress to settle the .dispute. At
last, the woodpecker went off to cut a hole
in another tree. If the wren had known
where he went, I dare say she would have
followed him, and turned him out of his own
house again.

The purple Martins, for whom we build
such pretty little martin-boxes on our barns
and outhouses, are likewise much plagued by
the bustling, scolding little wren. She quar-
rels with the martins, breaks up their nests,
while they are awray from home, and takes
possession herself. A gentleman who watch-
ed one of these fights, says the martins, at
last, went into the box when the wren was
absent, and built up the opening with clay
and straw, so that she could not get in. The
wren, after sputtering and tearing round for
two days, finally went off, and left the mar-
tins in peace.

The House Wren seems to be in America
a bird of the same character as the House-

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 115

Sparrow in Europe ; of whom Mary Howitt
writes :

" At home, he plagues the martins with his noise —
They huild, he takes possession and enjoys;
Or if he wants it not, he takes it still,
Just because teasing others is his will.
From hour to hour, from tedious day to day,
He sits to drive the rightful one away.''

The Basket-making birds weave sticks
and twigs together like a little basket, and
line it with a nice soft matting of fine fibrous
roots. The Blue Jay, the Bulfinch, the
Mocking Bird, the Solitary Thrush, and
several other small birds, build in this way.
But none of them makes a neater nest than
the Blue Linnet, or Indigo Bird. She swings
her pretty little cradle between two stalks of
corn, or strong high grass, around which she
fastens strips of flax, woven into a basket-
work frame, and lined with fine dry grass.

The Reed Bunting builds among reeds in
a similar way.

Crows make a clumsy basket-nest, of twigs
and black-thorn branches, with the thorns
sticking out all round. Within is a soft bed
of wool, or rabbit's fur.

Rooks make a frame-work similar to their
cousins, the crows, and line it with a basket-
work of fine fibrous roots. These birds live

1 16 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

NEST OP THE EEED BUNTING.

together in flocks. In England, whole groves
of trees may be seen loaded with their nests.
They are likewise fond of building among
the spires and battlements of old Gothic
buildings. Sometimes a young couple will

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 117

pilfer from an old nest, to save themselves
the trouble of flying far for sticks and twigs.
As soon as the rooks find this out, they gather
together, and shVw their displeasure by pull-
ing the stolen nest to p:eces. Their dislike
of such thievish neighbours is so strong, that
when they try to rebuild their nest, one is
obliged to stay and guard it all the time,
while the other goes for materials. But when
the mother begins to lay her eggs, the neigh-
bours cease to molest them, and leave them
to bring up their brood in peace.

Of ail the basket-makers, the Sociable
Grosbeak of Africa seems the most remark-
able. These birds cover the boughs of an
entire tree with a roof made of Boshman's
grass, so firmly basketed together that not a
drop of water can get through. It slopes,
like an umbrella, to carry the rain off. All
round the eaves of this canopy are a multi-
tude of little nests, so close together, that the
same opening sometimes answers for two or
three families.

Birds which make their nests with an
opening at the side, instead of the top, are
called Dome-Builders. In hot countries they
are more apt to build so ; probably for the
sake of a roof to shield them from the sun.
The European wren builds a beautiful little

118 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

nest in this way, of green moss lined with
hair. It looks like a common bird's nest
standing up on end.

The Hay Bird builds a loose nest, in simi-
lar fashion.

HAY-BIRD S WEST.

The American Marsh Wren makes a very
strong and ingenious nest. It is formed of
wet rushes mixed with mud, well intertwist-
ed, and moulded into the form of a cocoa nut.
A small hole is left in the side, and the upper
edge projects over the lower, like a pent-
house to keep off the rain. The inside is

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 119

lined with fine soft grass and feathers. It is
generally suspended among strong reeds,
above the reach of the tide. It is tied so
fast that the winds cannot blow it down, and
when hardened by the sun, it will stand all
kinds of weather.

The Magpie makes a loose irregulai
fabric of thorny branches, and builds a dome
over her nest with the same material. The
opening is small, and the thorns sticking out-
ward form a prickly fence all round. Inside
is a bowl of well-wrought clay, as much
as a foot deep, lined with dry grass and
fibrous roots. Even the fox, with all his
cunning, would find it difficult to get at her
treasure. Magpies are great thieves, and
take a particular fancy to shining things, such
as buttons, spoons, and rings, which they
carry off and hide in their deep nests.

There is a British bird called Jack-in-the-
Bottle, or Bottle-Tit, because he builds a
long, bottle-shaped nest, with the mouth tip-
ped downward, so that the large round end
forms a nice overarching dome for his little
ones. It is made of white and gray lichens,
lined with moss, wool, and cobwebs, closely
felted together, and covered with an abun-
dance of feathers.

Some birds are called Cementers, because

120 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

they form their nest of a kind of cement.
The most remarkable of these is a small gray
bird in China, called the Esculent Swallow.
They build in deep caves near the sea-shore,
and their nests are firmly glued against the
rock. They are of a substance like isinglass,
supposed to be manufactured by the birds
from a glutinous kind of fish-spawn, that
floats on the surface of the sea. They are
called Edible Nests, because epicures like to
eat them in soup or broth. Before they
have been used by the birds, they are very
white and clean, and in that state often sell
for more than their weight in silver.

Of the Weaver-Birds the best workman is
the Baltimore Oriole, likewise called the
Golden Robin, and Fiery Hanging Bird, on
account of the flaming brilliancy of her
feathers. Of flax, hemp, or tow, she weaves
a. strong cloth-like nest, hangs it from a fork-
ed twig, and sews it firmly with long horse-
hair. They will carry off skeins of thread,
and strings from the grafts of trees, to weave
into these curious nests. Near the top, there
is a hole for entrance. The inside is lined
with soft substances, and finished with a neat
layer of hair. ,One of these ingenious birds,
having found an old epaulette, pulled it to
pieces, and wove a nest of silver wire.

BOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 121

" The shining- wire she pecked and twirled,
Then bore it to her bough,
Where on a flowery twig 'twas curled—
The bird can show you how.'*

This glittering nest was shown as a great
curiosity ; but I don't believe the young birds
found it any more comfortable, or liked it any
better, than one made of tow.

The Hindoos are much attached to a do-
cile little bird called the Bengal Sparrow.
She weaves grass into a bottle-shaped nest,
hung on the highest tree she can find ; usu-
ally a Palm, or an Indian Fig-tree. The
entrance is at the bottom, as a security
against snakes, and other creatures of prey.
It is fastened very securely to the twig, but
swings about in the wind. The interior
consists of two or three chambers, against
the walls of which they fasten, in moist clay,
the brilliant fire-flies of India. The Hindoos
believe they do it to light their rooms.
Whether this conjecture be true or not, it is a
well established fact that they do fasten these
luminous insects inside their nests; and if
taken away, they immediately procure others.
These knowing little birds can be taught
to fetch and carry notes from one house to
another ; and if a ring be dropped over a
well, they will, at a given signal, dive with

I

122 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

astonishing swiftness, and catch it before if
touches the water.

Felt-Making Birds manufacture their nests
of moss, leaves, and wool, closely felted to-
gether, into a substance like that made by
hatters. The English Chaffinch and Gold-
inch build such nests in the fork of a tree.

NEST OF THE GOLDFINCH.

with a neat lining of smoothly woven hair
^Canary Birds make a felted nest, in the crotch

HOW, THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 123

of an Orange tree, and line it with the hair
of deer or rabbits, if they can find it.

Tailor-Birds are those that sew their nests
together. The Orchard Starling of the Uni-
ted States, makes a nest of long tough grass,
sewed through and through in a thousand
directions, as if done with a needle and
thread. It is lined with button-wood down,
and almost always suspended from the twig
of an apple-tree.

The Tailor-Bird of the East Indies, by the
help of her long pointed bill, and the fine
flexible fibres of plants, sews two large leaves
firmly together, and makes inside a nice lit-
tle bed of cotton-dowTn and feathers.

The dear little Humming-Bird makes a
jewel of a nest, about an inch in diameter.
The outside is of the bluish-gray lichen, so
common on old trees and fences. Inside is
the down of mullein, fern, and other plants,
closely felted together, and laid as smoothly
as a carpet. It contains two pure white
eggs, not much bigger than large peas. This
cunning little nest looks like a knot of moss
on the branch of a tree.

In Africa, there is a small bird, called the
Cape-Tit, which felts together a species of
cotton-down into a fabric as thick as a stock-
ing. It is shaped like a bottle, and near the

124 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS.

top is a snug little pocket on the outside, for
the father-bird to sleep in. If both the birds
go away at once, they beat the opening of
the nest with their wings, till they felt it to-
gether, and thus close the entrance com-
pletely. This is their way of shutting the
nursery door and taking the key.

Can any boy read how much- pains these
pretty creatures take to make a safe and
comfortable home for their little ones, and
not resolve that he will never do harm to a
bird's nest? I hope not. I would almost
as soon steal a baby in its cradle, and leave
the poor mother to grieve, as I would rob a
bird of her nest, or her eggs. They have
little hearts, that ache as ours do, when any-
body kills those they love. Sometimes they
even die of grief. The poor little things !

A very good man, named John Woolman,
tells this story of himself: " Once, in my
childhood, as I went to a neighbour's house,
I saw, on the way, a robin sitting on her
nest. As I came near, she went off; but
having young ones, she flew about, and with
many cries expressed her concern for them.
I stood and threw stones at her, till one struck
her, and she fell down dead. At first, I was
pleased with this exploit ; but after a few
minutes, I was seized with horror, because

HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NE3T3. 125

I had, in a sportive way, killed an innocent
creature while she was careful of her young.
When I beheld her lying dead, I began to
think how those young ones, for which she
was so careful, must now perish for want
of a mother to feed them. After some pain-
ful reflection, I climbed the tree, and killed
all the young birds ; thinking it better to do
this, than to leave them to pine away, and
die miserably. Thus did I fulfil the Scrip-
ture proverb, ' The tender mercies of the
wicked are cruel.' Then I went on my er-
rand ; but for hours 1 could think of little else
but the cruelty 1 had committed ; and I was
much troubled."

I wish all my young readers may have
as kind a heart, and as tender a conscience,
as this good boy, who lived to be a man, and
was a great blessing to the poor and the dis-
tressed.

THE PRESENT

A LITTTE DRAMA.

Charlotte. (Coming slowly out of the
breakfast-room.) Father has not come down
yet. I do wish he would. George, what
do you suppose he meant when he said last
night that he should make us a charming
present this morning ?

George. I think he has bought me a cap
and feather. I asked him for one. You
know they made me captain of the boy's
company last week.

Charlotte. (Laughing.) My heart, George,
don't try to walk so tall ! If you want to be
a mighty magnificent little man, as father
calls you, do step upon the cricket, and take
this pen for a sword, Captain George. Come,
don't be in a pet, now. You know I think
it is a very grand thing to have a captain for
a brother. But I am sure father did not
mean a cap and feather ; for he said the pre-

THE PRESENT. 127

sent was for us. He did not say it was for
you. Besides, he told me I must be more
like a woman, after I received this present ;
and that I must try hard to keep my good
resolutions. And I do mean to be good. I
don't mean to tell the least mite of an un-
truth all this year. Father says I am almost
a woman now. There's the door-bell ring-
ing. I'll speak to John. (She opens the door
just as John is passing.) John, there is
somebody ringing. If it is any little girl to
see me, tell her I am very much engaged.
Don't say I have gone out. I don't wish you
to tell any lies for me. Now, George, please
tell me what you are laughing at ?

George. My heart, Charlotte, don't try to
talk so very tall ! If you want to be a mighty
magnificent little woman, as father says, just
step upon this cricket.

Charlotte. (Pouting a little.) I say it isn't
fair of you to plague me so, George.

George. Come, don't be in a pet, now.
You know I think it is a very great thing to
have such a lady for a sister. But here
comes father. Now for the present ! (They
jump j and catch hold of the ski7'ts of his coat.)

Both. What is it, father ? What is it ?

Father. What do you guess it is ?

George. A cap and feather.

128 THE PRESENT.

Charlotte. A big French doll.

Father. Charlotte has made the best guess.
It is more like a doll, than it is like a cap and
feather.

George. Is it anything alive ?

Father. Yes, it is something alive.

George. Is it a bird ?

Charlotte. Is it a lamb ?

Father. It is something like a lamb.

Both. Do show it to us, dear father.

{He goes out, and soon after returns with
a baby in his arms.)

Father. Here is a little sister for you.

Charlotte. I declare, it is a baby sister.

George. Why, so it is !

Father. Is this as pretty a present as you
expected ?

George. Why, I thought it would be a
cap and feather.

Charlotte. And I thought perhaps it would
be a great doll. But I think I shall love this
little sister better than a doll. What a pretty
little mouth she has ; and what cunning little
fingers. By and bye, she will know me ;
won't she, father ? (She kisses the babe.)

George. Let me kiss her, too. I like
her, though she is not a cap and feather.
By and bye, she will trot round after me,

THE PRESENT. 129

and call me Dordy. And I'll pull the rib-
bon off her hair, and make her squeal.

Charlotte. No you mustn't. Shall he,
father ? She is my sweet little sister, and I
won't let you vex her.

George. Oh, Charlotte, she will soon be
big enough to jump on the cricket, and be a
mighty magnificent little woman ; and when
the bell rings, she will say, John, if any little
girls call to see me, say that I am very much
engaged ; I don't wish you to tell any lies
for me. (He runs out, looking back and
laughing.)

Charlotte. (Running to the front door,
calls after him.) Oho, Captain George, I
suppose you feel very tall, with your com-
pany ! Where's your cap and feather ?

George. Where's your doll ?

Charlotte. My doll is alive. She is a
sweet little sister.

THE INDOLENT FAIRY.

nce there was a little fairy
remarkable for her impa-
tience and indolence. They
are generally a busy little
race ; but, as there are
drones in a bee-hive, so
there have been, as it is said,
lazy fairies. I will name this one Papillon,
which is the French word for butterfly ; for
she dearly loved to be dressed in gaudy col-
ours, to sleep in the rich chambers of the
Foxglove, and flutter over the fragrant Mig-
nonette. In truth, she was a luxurious little
fairy as ever the sun shone upon. So much
did she love her ease, that she would not
even gather a dew-drop to bathe her face,
or seek a fresh petal of the rose for a nap-
kin.

The queen of the fairies observed {he
faults of Papillon, and resolved to help her
correct them. She summoned her one day,

THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 131

and ordered her to go to a cavern in Cey-
lon, and there remain until she had fashioned
a purer and more brilliant diamond, than had
ever rested on the brow of mortal or fairy.
Papillon bowed in silence, and withdrew;
but when she was out of the presence of the
queen, she burst into a passionate flood of
tears. " I shall have to watch that diamond
months and months, and years and years,"
said she ; " and every day I must turn it
over with my wand, that the crystals may
all form even. O, it is an endless labour to
make a diamond. O dear, I am a most
wretched fairy."

Thus she sat, and sobbed and murmured,
for many minutes. Then she jumped up,
and stamped her feet on the ground so furi-
ously that the little blue-eyed grass trem-
bled. " I won't bear it," she exclaimed ; " I
will run away to the fairies of the air. I am
sure they will glory in my beauty, and will-
ingly be slaves to my pleasure. As for mak-
ing a diamond, it is an impossible thing for
such a little fairy as I am." As she looked
up, she caught a glance of her image reflect-
ed in a brook. She saw that the splendid
green of her wings was changed, and that
the silver spots were all dim ; for if the fai-
ries indulge any evil passions, their wings

132 THE INDOLENT FAIRY.

always droop, and their beauty fades. At
this sight, Papillon again wept aloud, with
vexation and shame. " I suppose the tyrant
thinks I won't go away in this plight," said
she ; " but I will go, just to let her see that
I don't care for her." As she spoke, the sil-
ver spots disappeared entirely, and her wings
became a deeper and dirtier 'brown. She
waved her wand impatiently, and called,

" Humming-bird, humming-bird, come nigh, come nigh,
And carry me off to the far blue sky !"

In an instant, the bird was at her feet ; and
she sprang upon his back, and they flew
away to the golden clouds of the west, where
the queen of the air fairies held her court.
At her approach, the queen and all her train
vanished : for they saw by her garments
that wicked feelings had been busy at her
heart, and that she was in disgrace at home.
Everything around her was beautiful.
The clouds hung like transparent curtains
of opal, and the floor was paved with frag-
ments of rainbow. Thousands of gorgeous
birds fluttered in the sunlight, and a multi-
tude of voices filled the air with sweet
sounds. Papillon, fatigued with the journey,
and lulled by the music, fell into a gentle
slumber. As she slept, she dreamed that a

THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 133

tiny bird, smaller even than the humming-
bird, was building a nest beside her. Straw
after straw, and shred after shred, the pa-
tient little creature brought, and fitted into
its place ; and then away she flew, far over
the hills and fields, to bring a fresh supply.
" She is a foolish little thing," muttered Pa-
pillon. " How much labour she takes upon
herself; and I don't believe she will ever
get it done, after all." But the bird worked
away diligently, and never stopped to think
how long it would take her ; and very soon
she finished a warm soft nest, fit for a fairy
to sleep in.

Papillon peeped into it, and exclaimed,
" O, what a pretty thing!" Immediately
she heard the tinkling of a guitar, and a clear
voice singing,

" Little by little, the bird built her nest."

She started up, and the queen of the air
fairies stood before her, in a robe of azure
gossamer, embroidered with the feathers of
the butterfly. "Foolish Fairy," she said,
" return to your own queen. We allow no
idlers among us. Time and patience can
accomplish all things. Go and make your
diamond, and then you shall be welcome
here." Papillon wanted to urge how very

134 THE INDOLENT FAIRY.

long it took to make a diamond ; but the
queen flew away, touching her guitar, and
singing,

" Little by little, the bird built her nest."

Papillon leaned her head upon her wand
a few minutes. She began to be ashamed
of being an indolent fairy ; anxl she felt half
disposed to set about her appointed task
cheerfully. She called the humming-bird
and returned to earth. She alighted on the
banks of " Bonnie Doon," close by the ver-
dant little mound, where her offended queen
resided. Near her, the bees were at work
in a crystal hive. Weary and sad at heart,
she watched them as they dipped into the
flowers, to gather their little load of pollen.
" I wish I loved to be industrious, as they
do," thought she ; "but as for that diamond,
it is in vain to think of it. I should never
get it done."

Then a delightful strain of music came
from within the mound, and she heard a cho-
rus of voices singing,

" Grain by grain, the bee builds her cell."

Papillon could have wept when she heard
those familiar voices ; for she longed to be
at home, dancing on the green sward with
her sister fairies. " I will make the diamond,"

THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 135

murmured she : " I shall get it done some
time or other ; and I can fly home every
night to join in the dance, and sleep among
the flowers."

Immediately a joyful strain of music rose
on the air, and she heard well-remembered
voices singing,

" Welcome sister, welcome home I
Soon the appointed task is done."

Alas, bad habits are not easily cured.
Papillon began to think how hard she should
have to work, and how many times she must
turn the crystals, and how far she must fly
to join her companions in the dance. " I
never can do it," said she. " I will go to
the queen of the ocean fairies, and see if her
service is not easier."

Mournful notes came from within the
mound, as Papillon turned toward the sea
shore ; but she kept on her wayward course.
When she came to the beach, she waved her
wand thrice, saying,

" Argonaut ! Argonaut ! come to me,
And carry me through the cold green sea."

The delicate little pearly boat of the argo-
naut, or paper-nautilus, floated along the
ocean, and a moment after, a wave landed it
at her feet. And down, down thev went into

136 THE INDOLENT FAIRY.

a coral grove, among the lone islands of the
Pacific. Magnificent was the palace of the
ocean queen ! Coral pillars were twisted
into a thousand beautiful forms ; pearls hung
in deep festoons among the arches ; the fan-
coral and the sea-moss were formed into coo
deep bowers ; and the hard sandy floor was
tesselated with many-coloured shells.

But as it had been in the air, so was it in
the ocean. The palace was deserted at the
approach of the stranger. " O, how beauti-
ful is all this !" exclaimed Papillon. " How
much more beautiful than our queen's flow-
ery arbour. The giants must have made
these pillars." As she spoke, her eyes were
nearly blinded by a swarm of almost invisi-
ble insects ; and she saw them rest on a half-
finished coral pillar, at a little distance.
While she looked and wondered, there was
a sound as of many Tritons blowing their
horns, and she heard the chorus,

" Mite by mite, the insect builds our coral bower."

The sounds came nearer and nearer, and
a hundred fairies, floating on beautiful shells,
drew nigh. At their head was the queen,
clothed in a full robe of wave-coloured
silk, spun by Pinna, the Ocean Silk-worm.
It was as thin as the spider's web, and the

THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 137

border was gracefully wrought with the
smallest of seed pearls. " Foolish Papil-
lon, learn to be industrious," she said. " We
allow no idlers about our court. Look at
the pillars of my palace. They were made
by creatures smaller than yourself. Labour
and patience did it all."

She waved her wand, and the hundred
shells floated away ; and ever and anon the
fairies sang in full chorus,

" Mite by mite, the insect builds our coral bower."

" Well," said Papillon, sighing, " all crea-
tures are busy, on the earth, in the air, and
in the water. All things seem to be happy
at their work ; perhaps I can learn to be so.
I will make the diamond ; and it shall be as
brilliant and pure as a sunbeam in a water
drop."

Papillon sought the deep caverns of Cey-
lon. Day by day, she worked as busily as
the coral insect. She grew cheerful and
happy ; her green wings resumed their lus-
tre, and the silver spots became so bright,
that they seemed like sparks of fire. Nevei
had she been so beautiful, never half so much
beloved.

After several years had passed away,
Papillon knelt at the feet of the queen and

m

138

THE INDOLENT FAIRY.

offered her diamond. It was brilliant be-
vond anything the earth had ever produced.
{t gave light like a star, and the whole palace
shone with its rays. To this day, the fairies
call it Papillon's diamond.

LITTLE BIRD! LITTLE BIRD!

ittle bird! little bird! come to

11 , me !

JpHere is a green cage hung on the
^" "il" tree.

Beauty-bright flowers I'll bring to you,
And fresh ripe cherries, all wet with dew.

Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care;
But I dearly love the free broad air;
And my snug little nest in the old oak tree
Is better than golden cage for me.

Little bird ! little bird ! 'where wilt thou go,
When the fields are all buried in snow?
The ice will cover your old oak tree ;
You had better come and stay with me.

1 40 LITTLE BIRD ! LITTLE BIRD !

Nay, little maiden, away I'll fly
To greener fields and a warmer sky.
When Spring returns with pattering rain,
You will hear my merry song again.

Little bird ! little bird ! who'll guide thee
Over the hills and over the sea ?
Foolish one, come in the house to stay,
For I'm very sure you'll lose your way

Ah no, little maiden ! God guides me
Over the hills and over the sea.
C will be free as the rushing air,
Chasing the sunlight everywhere.

i &T9 !/W

THE DEAF AND DUMB.

I'

"n old times, those who
were so unfortunate as
not to be able to speak
or hear, had no means of in-
struction. They grew up
and died, without being able
to write their thoughts, or to
read pleasant books. But of late years, the
power of teaching them by signs has been
carried to such perfection, that they can read
and write perfectly well. Institutions for
their instruction are now established in near-
ly all Christian countries. The best in this
country is at Hartford, Connecticut. It is a
most beautiful sight to see these unfortunate
children striving so eagerly to receive ideas
through their imperfect senses, and to express
them by means of a language they have
never heard spoken.

The pupils in the Deaf and Dumb School

142 THE DEAF AND DUMB.

at Exeter, England, lately wrote and printed
a little book, which the)?- dedicated to their
teacher. One little boy, named John Wil-
ton, writes to her thus, " Dearest Madam, I
and my( dear school-fellows desire to put
your great name in this little book to give to
you. We all love you ; because you thought
about us in our young life, and' built this
house for us, with your many friends. We
look at this beautiful place, and we think of
you, and we think of our ignorance, and
loneliness, and unhappiness, before we came
here ; and we say we truly love you, and
your name is in our hearts and in our minds,
and your face is confirmed to us. You
knew me in my little years, and I was at
your house for teaching ; but some of my
school-fellows did not see you before, but
they sign to me that they are grateful, as I
am, to you. We pray much for you. Do
you like us to pray for you ?"

The volume is composed of short religious
pieces, written by several deaf and dumb
boys ; but the most beautiful spirit among
them all is named Hugh Coyle. He writes :
"O, my God, thou knowest I have no hatred
to men. I would not have revenge to any.
But, O, my Father, when any one teases me,
my heart is hot with passion, and my face

THE DEAF AND DUMB. 143

is red, and my eyes are bright to anger.
But I will not beat him. I will not slander
about him. I will not keep malice against
him ; because I suffer for my Jesus Christ.
I try to suppress evil passions like him. I
endeavour to bear tribulation with noble
mind. But, 0 my Father, I tell thee it is
hard to know well about this, because I am
ignorant. O my God, I am humble in thy
sight, because I know I am imperfect in my
all. I feel sin is dull to me. It has no
pretty thoughts, and no peace. I have look-
ed at the new bird in the cage, and it was
uneasy, and it disliked the prison. It would
fly away in the pure air to the high tree.
Sin is like a cage to me, because it makes
my mind unhappy and heavy. I every day
pray thee to pardon me, because every day
I do sin in thy sight, O my Father. I be-
lieve that prayer prevails with thee, and I
am at rest in my heart. I know I often ask
what is not proper for me ; but thou refusest
to give me, because thou art merciful and
wise. I ask much money of thee, because
I think to be charitable to poor men ; but
thou givest me no great money ; for thou
knowest it would make me proud, and vain,
and indolent. Thou givest me all things
better than money. Thou givest me patience.

144 THE DEAF AND DUMB.

Thou givest me thirst for knowledge. Thou
givest me cheerfulness in my religion. Thou
givest me trust in my Jesus Christ. Thou
givest me charity in heart that makes me
pray to thee for others ; and I am happy
with all thy doings to me. My heart sings
to thee. I choose pretty words in mind for
thee. I have great names for thee in my
heart. I love to hold converse with thee ;
and I sometimes weep to thee, O my Father.
" My father-man is gone from me, O God ;
and I am my own one Hugh Coyle in the
world. I am poor in my clothes, and I am
like a little tree in the far wide field. But J
see thou givest trees new dresses ; and I
see thou makest men kind to thy little birds
and pretty animals ; and I know thou wilt
make men friends to me, and kind to me ;
because thou art happy to love me, and see
me pray, O my Father."

LOUISA PllESTON.

Louisa Preston was the
daughter of a poor wid-
ow, who lived in Boston.
Her father was an English-
man. He came to Ameri-
ca because he could not
earn a living in his native
land. In this country he found employment
and good wages, but he always continued
poor because he had a large family of chil-
dren to support, and his wife had very slen-
der health. When his daughter Louisa was
about ten years old, he died, and his widow
was obliged to take in washing to support
the family. At this trying period, Louisa,
young as she was, was a great help and con-
solation to her mother. She brought water,
hung out the clothes, washed the hearth,,
and tended her baby sister, till it seemed as
if her arms would break. Besides all this^
n 10

146 LOUISA PRESTON.

she attended school constantly, and was pro-
nounced the first scholar there. I have heard
her mother say that after Louisa had been
working hard for her, until eleven o'clock at
night, she had often found her at the first
grey peep of day, with her head out of the
window studying her lessons by the earliest
light. Yet though Louisa worked early and
late, neither her looks nor her health were
injured. She was not beautiful, but she had
an honest, cheerful face, and her blue eyes
looked so friendly, that everybody thought
her countenance very agreeable. Though
a girl of great energy and bravery, her man-
ners were so mild and affectionate, that the
very kitten, if she hurt her paw, went to
Louisa, as if she knew by instinct who had
the kindest and best heart in the world. As
for her little sister, she loved her so much,
that whenever she was ill or grieved, her
-cry always was " Loolly ! Loolly!" and it
was seldom her mother could get her to
sleep, till Louisa came home to rock her,
and toll her stories. It was enough to do
one's heart good to see chubby little Mary
tottle to the door, the moment she heard her
sister's well-known footstep ; and to see her
jump up and down so prettily, and throw her
arms round Louisa's neck with excess of joy

LOUISA PRESTON. 147

Poor Louisa had few comforts at home,
and some vexations at school ; and it seem-
ed as if her heart were more wrapped up in
the dear little one, because she had few other
things to love. She often pleased herself
with thinking how much she and her brother
John, who was about two years younger
than herself, would do for Mary and their
mother, as soon as they were old enough to
support themselves. This excellent girl,
hoped, and intended, to fit herself for teach-
ing one of the primary schools ; and so anx-
ious was she to help her mother, that she
sometimes cried to think that she was no
older. Sometimes, too, she was almost dis-
couraged from trying to learn ; for it took
so much of her time to assist her mother in
washing, to mend her brother's clothes, and
to tend the baby, that it seemed to be almost
impossible for her to get her lessons. But
to the industrious and persevering, nothing
is impossible. Louisa Preston, with all her
discouragements, was the best scholar in
school. She was generally beloved by her
companions, for her pleasant temper and
obliging disposition ; but some did not quite
like it that she should always keep above
them in the class ; and as they could find
nothing to blame in her deportment, they

149 LOUISA PRESTON.

sometimes vented their evil feelings by laugh-
ing at her dress.

" Well, Miss Creak-shoes, I hope you are
easy, now you've got up to the head again,"
said Hannah White.

" I should be ashamed to stand at the head,
if I had such a coarse, short gown as yours,"
said Harriet May.

" It is the best my mother can afford," an-
swered Louisa, meekly.

" Then I'd stay at home and help her
wash," said Hannah White.

Some of the girls laughed, as if they
thought there was disgrace in having a poor,
industrious mother. Louisa blushed pain-
fully, and their laugh went through her heart
like a dagger. For a moment, she felt
ashamed of being a washerwoman's daugh-
ter. She turned round suddenly, and came
very near saying some angry things to Han-
nah White. But the good girl had learned
to govern her temper. The flush on her
cheeks died away, and the tears came to
her eyes ; but she spoke not a word. When
children do unkind things, it is more from
thoughtlessness than cruelty of heart. Lou-
isa's tearful eyes at once made all the little
girls feel sorry.

" I am sure I did not mean any harm by

LOUISA PRESTON. 149

laughing," said one. " I should be ashamed
if I were you, Hannah White," said another ;
" for you know there never was a better girl
than Louisa."

" We did not mean to hurt your feelings,"
said a third. " We did not think what we
were doing, when we laughed. We could
not love you better, if you wore a silk
gown."

Louisa was comforted by these expres-
sions ; but she was mortified and grieved,
and she did not return home as light-hearted
as usual.

When she entered their little dark room,
she found her mother at the wash-tub, look-
ing very pale and tired. " Here is Loolly,
dear," said she to little Mary, who was so
busy scrubbing doll-rags in a little wooden
bowl, that she did not notice her sister's en-
trance. "Oh, Loolly! Loolly!" shouted the
little one ; and her voice sounded merry as
a Christmas bell. Her mother smiled, and
looked affectionately on her oldest daughter,
as she said, " Oh, Louisa, how could we get
along without you ? You are the best child
that ever lived ; and God will bless you for
your kindness to your poor mother."

Louisa's heart was too full to bear this
She threw her arms round her mother's

150 LOUISA PRESTON.

neck, and burst into tears. " What is the
matter?" asked her mother. "Nothing,"
she replied ; " at least, nothing that I can
tell." When urged to keep none of her
troubles secret from her mother, she answer-
ed, " I would tell you, certainly I would, if
it were right; but the girls at school said
something to me that hurt my feelings very
much ; and it is not proper for me to tell
you what it was *"

Her mother did not urge her. She knew
Louisa was a girl to be trusted, a,nd she sus-
pected that some allusion had been made to
her poor dress, which she, with genuine deli-
cacy, had forborne to mention.

Louisa persuaded her mother to sit down
and dry her feet, while she hung out the
clothes, washed the room, put John and
Mary to bed, and made a *cup of hot tea.
While she was busily engaged in perform-
ing these kind offices, her mother often look-
ed upon her with an expression of love,
which seemed to say she had nothing else
in the wide world to lean upon, but her.
Louisa understood the language of her face,
and it filled her with self-reproach. She
asked her own heart, " How could I, for one
moment, feel ashamed of that good mother,
who has always loved me ; who took care

LOUISA PRESTON. 151

of me when I was a babe ; who has toiled
many a time when she was ill herself, in
order to make me comfortable ? I am proud
of my mother for her goodness, her industry,
and her self-denial. How could I have such
wrong feelings, on account of anything those
thoughtless girls could say ? "

Most girls of her age would not have been
so much troubled because they had been for
a few moments ashamed that their mothers
were, poor hard-working women ; but Lou-
isa had a very tender conscience, and she
knew that such pride was not pleasing in
the eyes of her Heavenly Father. Before
she went to bed that night, she prayed ear-
nestly that such feelings might never again
come into fyer heart; and the sleep of the
good child was sweet and refreshing.

In the morning, her mother said, " Louisa,
dear, I do not like to keep you a moment
from school ; but Mrs. White's bundle of
clothes is too heavy for John, and I have
nobody but you to carry it."

Louisa's face crimsoned for a moment. It
was only the day before that Hannah White
had ridiculed her for being a washerwoman's
daughter. She could not bear to carry the
clothes home, when she was likely to meet
her on the way to school ; but she remem-

152 LOUISA PRESTON.

bered how wretched such thoughts had made
her the day before ; and she answered, with
one of her sweetest smiles, " I can go just as
well as not, mother. I shall get to school in
good season, if I walk quick."

Her mother thanked her ; and with a large
bundle in one hand, and book and atlas in
the other, she left home with an approving
conscience, and a light heart. She met
several of her companions on the way, and
she thought some of them looked as if they
pitied her ; but she did not let that trouble
her. When she reached school, she found
that her class had just risen to recite. Her
heart beat violently, for she was anxious not
to make any mistake, and she had not had
time to review her lesson. She could not
answer the second question that was asked
her; she lost her place at the head, and
when recitation was finished, Hannah White
remained above her.

Hannah looked triumphant, and poor
Louisa found bad feelings again rising up in
her heart. She tried to crowd them back ;
but, overcome with many temptations and
troubles, she burst into tears. The instructer
supposed all her grief was occasioned by
losing her place in the class. He felt ex-
ceedingly sorry for her, because he knew

LOUISA PRESTON. 153

there must be some very good reason why
she had neglected her lesson. He did not
say anything, however, for he disliked to
call upon her the attention of the whole
school. But, by way of exciting her hopes,
he mentioned that a committee of gentlemen
would visit them in a few days, and that one
of them had proposed to give a handsome
copy of Miss Edgeworth's Moral Tales, and
one year's education at the best school in
the city, to the young lady who should, at
the end of eight weeks, evince the most
thorough knowledge of ancient and modern
geography. All Louisa's class felt sure that
she would get the prize ; and next to being
successful themselves, they wished her to be.
Hannah White and Harriet May were the
two next best scholars in school, and they
resolved in their own minds that they would
be victorious, if studying would make them
so. Not that they cared about the year's
schooling ; for their parents were pretty
rich ; but it was an honour, which they
thought worth trying for. Louisa knew
they were the only competitors she had to
fear ; and she was conscious it would cost
her an effort not to be jealous of them. Han-
nah White was not a bad-hearted girl, but
she had pert, unpleasant manners. Du-ing

154 LOUISA PRESTON.

recess th.it day, she said many sneering
things* which made Louisa feel unhappy, in
spite of herself. More than one little girl
said, "If I were Louisa Preston, I'd never
speak to Hannah White again."

The young lady who had told Harriet
May and Hannah White that they ought to
be ashamed of themselves, for laughing at
Louisa's coarse gown, was named Emily
Minot. She now came up to Louisa very
kindly, and putting her arm within hers, of-
fered her half the orange she was eating.
She was a kind girl, but wild and thought-
less, and very fond of fun. When they
again went into school, she amused herself
by cutting figures in paper, and holding them
up for the entertainment of her companions.
One of these figures was so very ridiculous,
that all who saw it burst into an uncon-
strained laugh. The instructer looked up
surprised ; but every face was sobered, and
intent upon a book. A few minutes elapsed,
and a tittering laugh was again heard
throughout the school-room. The teacher
was displeased with such conduct, and in-
sisted upon knowing the cause. No one
was willing to tell. Emily Minot, fearing
that search would be made, hastily pushed
the papers out of the way, and sat as de-

LOUISA PRESTON. 155

mure as a kitten. Some of the papers fell
on the floor, and others were found in Han-
nah White's desk ; and as she was very apt
to be roguish, the teacher concluded that she
was the culprit. He requested her to leave
her seat and stand beside his desk, till he
could decide what course to pursue with a
young lady, who spent her time in disturb-
ing school. She again and again declared
that she had not cut the papers, or shown
them ; but the teacher knew she did not
always tell the exact truth, and he did not
quite trust her. As she was not a favourite
in school, and Emily Minot was, no one
liked to step forward and vindicate her.
Trembling and blushing, with her eyes full
of tears, Hannah prepared to obey the or-
ders she had received ; but Louisa Preston
rose, and in a modest but firm tone, said,
" Hannah is not to blame, sir ; she only
laughed, and we all did that." " Who then
has done the mischief?" Louisa was silent,
and hung down her head. Emily Minot
had been so kind to her, and had always
been so ready to take her part when the
other girls vexed her, that she could not
bear to bring her into trouble, though she
knew very well that she deserved it. The
teacher began to grow impatient at having

156 LOUISA PRESTON.

the school interrupted by such delay. " Very
well, Louisa," said he, " if you know wTho
the culprit is, and will not tell, you must take
her place yourself." The poor girl was
much frightened. She was very bashful,
and the idea of having the eyes of all the
scholars fixed upon her was extremely pain-
ful. She glanced timidly round the room,
but no one dared to look up at her. She re-
membered how Emily Minot had taken her
arm, and given her half an orange that morn-
ing ; and with a beating heart she left her
seat and stood beside the instructer's desk.
There was silence throughout the school.
Emily Minot was grieved and ashamed.
She trembled violently ; and when the teach-
er placed the ridiculous paper figures in
Louisa's hand, and told her to hold them up
as high as she could reach, until he gave ner
leave to lower her arm, Emily burst into
tears, and said, " It was I who did it."

The instructer was rejoiced to find so
much good and generous feeling among his
pupils. After expressing his extreme un-
willingness ever to resort to punishment of
any kind, he urged upon them the necessity
of preserving good order in school, and de-
clared his readiness to forgive the offender.
The adventures of that day were long re-

LOUISA PRESTON. 157

membered by all the scholars, and helped to
make them wiser and better girls. Hannah
White's good feelings were touched by-
Louisa's disinterested vindication. She was
conscious that she had not deserved it at
her hands. From that period, her character
and manners began to change. She was
always kind and polite to her playmates, and
particularly so to Louisa. Thus may evil
always be overcome with good.

'A day or two after this affair, she whis-
pered to Louisa, as they left school together,
" My mother told me to ask you to spend
next Saturday at our house. She says it
will particularly oblige her, and you must
not fail to come." Louisa was very much
surprised, and so was her mother, when she
heard of the invitation ; but they both thought
it would be proper and polite to go.

Mrs. White received her young visiter
very affectionately. She told her that what
she heard of her character and conduct, both
at home and at school, made her very desi-
rous to assist her. She gave her a good
supply of neat clothing, and interested seve-
ral ladies in behalf of her good mother. Mrs.
Preston no longer suffered from extreme
poverty. She was constantly employed by
ladies, who did not think it right to pay poor

158 LOUISA PRESTON.

women poor prices for their work. She was
grateful to her Heavenly Father for having
sent her such a daughter ; and often, and oft-
en, when they had knelt and prayed togeth-
er, before retiring for the night, she would
put her hands affectionately on Louisa's fore-
head, and say, "I always thought you would
bring blessings to us all. You were always
such a good girl." At such moments, Louisa
rejoiced that she was a washerwoman's daugh-
ter ; it gave her the means of being so help-
ful, and of living for others rather than herself.

This was a sunny time in the good girl's
life. She was useful and beloved at home,
and at school she went on improving and
gaining friends every day. Her progress in
geography surprised even her teacher, though
he expected much from her intelligence and
industry. There seemed to be no doubt that
she would win the prize.

Little Mary knew nothing about this good
luck. She had always loved her sister as
well as ever she could, and she could not
love her better now. One day, when Louisa,
as usual, kissed her and bade her good-bye,
before she went to school, the littie pet took
hold of her gown, and said, in her most coax-
ing tones, " Loolly stay wi' Mary ! Loolly
stay wi' Mary !" •

LOUISA PRESTON. 159

" I can't stay," replied Louisa : " I must go
to school now ; but by and bye Loolly will
come back to see dear little Mary." The
child sighed, and still keeping hold of her
gown, said, in her artless, prattling way,
"Mary love Loolly. Don't Loolly go."
Louisa's heart was so much touched by these
simple signs of love from her little favourite,
that she found it very hard to leave her.
But it was quite school time, and after put-
ting the hair nicely out of her eyes, and kiss-
ing her pretty white forehead, she ran away.
She stopped a moment in the road, to look
back and shake her satchel playfully at her,
as she stood peeping out of the door.

With a light and happy heart, she went
into school. Among all the rich and in-
dulged little ladies in town, not one could
be found that day so happy as Louisa Pres-
ton. She had been in school two hours,
when a boy came running in out of breath,
exclaiming, " Mary is burned to death !"
Louisa became as pale as chalk, and her
limbs trembled so, that she could hardly
move. At first, it seemed as if she would
faint away ; but she summoned her strength
instantly, and flew out like an arrow. She
hardly knew she had left the school-room
till she found herself at her mother's bed-side.

160 LOUISA PRESTON.

Oh, what a sight was there ! It was enough
to break her heart to look upon it. Mary
was not dead, but she was burned so badly,
that Louisa could hardly distinguish anything
in the shape of a face, where she had that
morning kissed the prettiest features and the
fairest skin, that ever belonged to a little
child. Her tongue, which had uttered such
sweet sounds that morning, was now useless.
She could not speak. The doctor said she
would never speak more ; and Louisa knew
that she should never again see the loving
expression of her beautiful eyes. It was
very hard to bear. The heart of the affec-
tionate sister ached so, that she could* not
weep. Sometimes, indeed, the tears would
come, when the little sufferer tried to nestle
close up to her cheek, or made a moaning
noise, if the supporting arm was withdrawn
from her head. Mary lingered three weeks,
in great pain. During all that time, she was
not willing that her beloved sister should
leave her even for a moment. It was not
until she had repeated half a dozen times
over, "Loolly will come back again," that
she could get away from the bed-side. The
poor little creature could not answer ; she
could not even smile. But her sister knew
very well, by the patient manner in which

LOUISA PRESTON. 161

she withdrew her hand, that she was willing
she should go ; and when she returned, the
eagerness with which the little hand moved
toward her, spoke whole volumes of love.

At last, Louisa's long and painful service
ended. Little Mary died. Her body was
buried in the ground, and angels came to
carry her gentle little soul home to her
Heavenly Father.

Louisa did not weep bitterly. She had
seen her little darling suffer so much, that
she did not wish her to linger any longer
in such dreadful pain. Sometimes, indeed,
when she remembered how Mary had tried
to coax her to stay at home from school, she
would think to herself, " Ah, if I had only
been at home, while mother was hanging out
the clothes, the poor little thing would not
have played with the fire." But she did not
say this ; for she knew no one was to blame,
and that it would only make her mother's
heart ache. It was a comfort to hear the
bereaved parent say, " Louisa, what should
I have done through this dreadful trial, if it
had not been for you, and the friends you
have raised up for me ?" Then she still had
her brother John to love. He had left his
boyish noisy sports, during little Mary's ill-
ness, and seemed to pitv his good mothe

o 11

162 LOUISA PRESTON.

and sister with all his soul. Sorrow softens
the heart, and makes it pitiful. After John
saw the body of his merry little sister laid
down and covered up in the ground, he be-
came more gentle, affectionate, and thought-
ful.

When Louisa recovered from her extreme
fatigue, she began to think about'school. Her
mother was too much worn out to be left alone ;
and for another fortnight, the diligent girl
could scarcely find an hour a day to study
the maps she was so eager to learn. At last,
with a long-drawn sigh, she gave up all
hopes of getting the prize. She did not let
her mother know that it made her unhappy ;
for she knew that when she made a sacrifice
for another, it was very unkind and selfish to
complain of it. But it is pleasant to have
some one to whom we can speak of what
troubles us. John was very young, and had
heretofore been a remarkably heedless boy ;
but he was more sober and attentive now,
and she knew that he would feel interested
for ner. Sometimes, when their mother was
asleep, she would talk with him about the
prize. " I do not care so much about losing
the books," said she ; " though I dearly love
to read. But I did hope I could go to a pri-
vate school for one year. I think I could bo

LOUISA PRESTON. 163

fitted for a teacher myself, if I could only do
that." John sympathised in all her wishes
and plans. It made him feel like a man, to
have his elder sister confide in him. In his
homely way, he would answer, "Now, Loui-
sa, I'd give all my old shoes, if you could get
that prize. Why won't you go to school,
and let me stay at home and take care of
mother ?" " I should not like to have her
know how much I want to go," replied
Louisa ; " besides you know you couldn't
do the mending mother has taken in." " I
can carry it home, and tell the folks that we
can't do it," said John. " But mother needs
the money, and cannot get it, without I earn
it for her," rejoined his th©ughtful sister.
" Mrs. White will give us some money, if
you go and tell her that mother is sick."
" No, no, John, I will never beg, so long as
I can work," said Louisa : " other people
ought not to help us, without we try to help
ourselves." "I have heard mother say a
hundred times," replied her brother, " that
all the friends raised up for her lately were
owing to your being so industrious and good.
I suppose that is the way to make friends,
and keep them, too ; and I mean to try to
be industrious and good." Louisa kissed
him, and told him she would trv to earn

164 LOUISA PRESTON.

money enough to put him to a good school,
and that she hoped to live to see him a great
support and blessing to their good mother,
when she was too old and infirm to support
herself. Such conversation sobered the boy,
and made him, like Louisa, older in charac-
ter than he was in years.

At the end of two weeks, Mrs. Preston
was so much better, that she could get
through her work very comfortably with
Johns assistance. Louisa, who had studied
every minute she could get, had still some
faint hopes of receiving the prize. When
she again took her accustomed seat at school,
Hannah White and Harriet May were a
little uneasy. They had supposed she would
not be able to come again, before the prize
was given, and they had not studied quite so
hard as they otherwise would have done.
However, they gave her a cordial welcome,
and all the scholars said they were glad to
see her back again. Her example had taught
them to be ambitious of excellence, yet be at
the same time amiable and disinterested. A
generous heart never dislikes a friend or
companion because she excels. It is only
bad and mean dispositions that cannot love a
rival.

The three girls felt willing that it should

LOUISA PRESTON. 165

be a fair trial of scholarship and industry
They talked together about it, and though
each said she hoped to gain the prize herself
they all promised to feel pleasantly toward
whoever gained it. To have rivals in her
class at school is sometimes a great trial to a
little girl's disposition and temper ; but the
only way to be really good is to resist and
overcome all temptation to be selfish.

It was soon evident that Louisa had wTell
employed what little time she had been able
to command during her mother's illness.
The instructer thought that her chance was
at least equal to that of any of her class-
mates. At last the important day arrived.
The committee and several visiters came to
examine the school. They were well pleased
with the young ladies in general ; but
Louisa's neat appearance, her modest, win-
ning ways, and the facility with which she
answered the most difficult questions address-
ed to her, soon made the committee think
that it would be a very pleasant thing to
give her the prize. The trial between the
three best scholars was, however, very
equal. Toward the close of the examina-
tion, Harriet May missed two questions, and
was thus thrown out of the list. The scho-
lars now watched Hannah White and Louisa

168 LOUISA PRESTON.

Preston with great eagerness. At last, Louisa
found herself unable to answer a question,
and it was passed to her rival, who gave a
very prompt and correct reply. Louisa's
hopes had been very highly excited, and now
she was so disappointed that her heart seem-
ed to stop its movement all at once, like a
watch when its spring is broken. But this
good girl had made such use of afflictions
and temptations, as our Heavenly Father in-
tends we should. They had made her more
humble and more wise. In a moment the
painful feeling went away, and she looked
up and smiled sweetly in Hannah's face, as
if she sincerely wished her joy.

Hannah White bore her victory very
meekly. When the volumes were bestowed
upon her, with high praises of her scholar-
ship, she blushed, and said, "I am sure I
should not have gained the prize, if Louisa
Preston had not been obliged to stay at home
five weeks, to nurse her sick mother and
sister." The tears came into Louisa's eyes,
as she thanked her generous rival with a
beaming glance of gratitude and love.

The committee were highly pleased. —
" Young ladies," said one of them, " this ex-
pression of mutual good feeling is far more
honourable to you, than any literary prize

LOUISA PRESTON. 16?

you can ever gain. Your wnole conduct
meets with our entire approbation ; and since
your recitations have been so nearly equal.
we shall give you both equal prizes."

Hannah White was never so happy in her
life, as she was that day. She found there
was nothing half so pleasant as being good ;
no victory half so delightful as the victory
over one's own selfishness.

" It was very kind of you to speak so of
me," said Louisa, putting her arm round her
friend's neck, and kissing her affectionately,
as they were about to leave school together.

" If I am better than I used to be, it is you
who have taught me," replied Hannah.

The friendship thus begun, continued
through life. The girls afterward went to
the same school, and both obtained a hand-
some medal the day they left it.

When Louisa was sixteen she began to
teach school ; and she gained the affections
of her pupils as rapidly as she had formerly
gained that of her playmates. Mrs. White's
family assisted her in every way they could.
By their friendly influence, united to her own
exertions, she was enabled to give her bro-
ther John an excellent education. When
Louisa playfully reminded him that she had
told him, when he was a little boy, that he

168 LOUISA PRESTON.

would be a support and comfort to their
aged mother, he answered, with an affection-
ate smile, " You, my good sister, have made
a man of me."

There is no Louisa Preston now. When
she was twenty-two years old, she married
Hannah White's brother. Her husband used
to say, " No doubt Louisa was a great bless-
ing to her mother and brother ; but she is a
greater blessing to me."

Louisa has a little daughter, whom she
named for her darling sister Mary. She is
a pretty, fat little cherub, just beginning to
talk a little. She looks up in her mother's
face very sweetly, and lisps out, " Ma- my
love mamma." Sometimes -her mother
catches her up, and half smothers her with
kisses, as she says, "I do wish the dear
little lamb would learn to say, ' Mary loves
Loolly.'"

LIFE IN THE OCEAN

" The floor is of sand, like the mountain's drift,

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Thoir boughs, where the tides and billows flow.
There, with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea,
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean

Are bending like corn on the upland lea."

John. Aunt Maria, did you say that co
ral was an animal ?

Aunt Maria. It is supposed to be a col
lection of the shells of small marine animals
joined together by a stony cement.

John. What kind of animal can it be thaf
lives in such a manner ?

Aunt Maria. A very singular class call
ed Zoophytes, from two Greek words, which
signify a' plant-animal. They are so called,
because they seem in some respects to be
like vegetables, and in others like animals.
There are several varieties of them. The
sponges, the corallines, the star-fish, and the
sea-anemone, belong to this singular class.

P

170 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

The Sea- Anemone is so called from its sin-
gular resemblance to a flower, both in its
shape, and the bright variety of its colours.
This animal-flower is usually fastened at one
extremity to rocks, or stones in the sand.
At the other extremity, the claws are ar-
ranged in circles, which give it- the appear-
ance of a blossom. They open and shut
these claws, to obtain food. They are very
greedy, and will swallow a muscle or a crab
as large as a hen's egg. That class of zoo-
phytes which are stony, like coral, are
called lithophytes, from two Greek words
meaning stone-plant. The lithophytes can-
not build above the level of the sea ; nor do
they ever build so high as to be left uncov-
ered with water, when the tide is lowest.

John. But I have read in books of voya-
ges about coral reefs being seen above the
ocean.

Aunt Maria. They are frequently seen ;
because the hot sun of the tropics often cracks
the coral, and causes large branches to break
off; and these branches float on the tide,
and are often lodged on the top of the reefs,
and become entangled there. Then the wind
wafts the sand into the crevices, and floating
sea- weed lodges there and decays. After a
while, the birds drop seeds, which take root

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 171

and grow, and blossom, and go to seed, and
die. Thus a soil is slowly formed, and
grasses and shrubs grow, and the birds come
and lay eggs there, and insects float thither
on pieces of wood, which have drifted thou-
sands of miles, and the coral reef becomes
an island ; then the islands get joined to-
gether by coral reefs growing up between
them, and thus become continents. It is
believed that a new continent is now being
formed, extending from New-Zealand to the
Sandwich Islands. If another continent is
thus added to the world, we may thank the
zoophytes and the birds, for having done
their masonry and gardening so well.

John. It is wonderful to think of such a
little creature's building continents ! How
do we know that North and South America
is not a huge bridge, built on coral piers ?
Perhaps the industrious zoophytes, as you
call them, had been at work on them for
a thousand years, before Christopher Co-
lumbus thought of sailing in search of the
new world.

Aunt Maria. Very likely it was so. Di-
vine wisdom is constantly carrying on im-
mense works by the most insignificant agents.
We short-sighted mortals know nothing of
the magnificent design, until we see it com-

172 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

ing into its final form. In the Pacific Ocean
and the South Seas, one can observe the
gradual formation of islands and continents.
The growth of coral in those seas is prodi-
gious ; and what is singular, it is almost al-
ways in a circular, or half-circular shape.

John. I remember reading in a book that
in old times people thought mushrooms grew
in rings, because fairies had danced there in
a circle, and mushrooms sprung up all round
their path.

Aunt Maria. You know the Irish tell
many stories of a kind of sea-fairies, which
they call merrows. It is just as likely that
coral grows up where they dance in circles
in the water. At any event, there is beauty
enough to be the work of fairies. In some
of these crescent-shaped islands, you see a
rim of coral running out into the deep, un-
fathomable sea, covered with tufts of Palm,
Cocoa, and Bread-Fruit trees. The tropical
seas, near the shore, are of the clearest and
most brilliant green. When the sun shines
on it, the graceful branches of white coral
may be seen deep down through the emerald
waters, interspersed with sponges, sea-moss,
coralline fans, leaves, and plumes, with co-
lours as various and brilliant as a tulip-bed.
They wave about in the water, like flowers

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 173

blown by the wind, and great herds of fish
may be seen down in the green depths,
browsing on the corallines, like cattle in a
pasture.

John. That must be a beautiful sight !
How I should like to go down there. But
what makes those coral leaves, and long
branches, like feathers?

Aunt Maria. They are supposed to be
marine plants, on which the insects have
built, till all the veins are completely covered
with the stony substance they deposit.

John. A sailor once showed me a piece
of wood all covered with little hard shells.
He said the entire bottom of a vessel was
sometimes covered with them.

Aunt Maria. That is a small creature,
that lives in what is called the sea-acorn, or
the acorn-shell. The sailors call them bar-
nacles. They fasten themselves to rocks,
stones, and even to marine animals. On the
beach, you will often find pebbles so covered
with them, that they look like stone-honey-
comb. These parasites fasten on vessels in
such numbers, that they are sometimes ob-
liged to turn ships bottom upward and
scrape them off.

John. What do you call them parasites
for? '

174 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

Aunt Maria. When a person flatters a
rich man, or a powerful man, and keeps
about him all the time, in hopes of getting
something, and will not go away, though he
knows his company is disagreeable, he is
called a parasite. There are some plants,
which fasten their roots into the stems of
other plants, and take away fheir strength.
The misletoe thus fastens on trees, and
dodder fastens on flax. Such plants are
called parasites. There are a variety of
shell fish that fasten themselves to rocks, and
to other fish. All such are called parasites.
Some of them have shells in two parts, like
oysters or clams. They lie with their shells
open, waiting for something to swim along
for them to eat ; but if they see any danger
coming, they shut up very quick.

John. That must be a very safe and easy
way of getting a living.

Aunt Maria. Not so safe as you think.
They have a destructive enemy, called the
Trochus ; a kind of sea-snail, with a conical
shell, and a trunk toothed like a saw. This
instrument bores, like an augur, through the
hardest ana^ thickest shell. When the tro-
chus once fastens, he cannot be shaken off.
It is of no use to open and shut the shell,

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 175

ever so violently. There he stays till he
bores through, and eats the fish inside.

John. Is that the reason why there are
so many shells of clams, oysters, and cockles,
on the beach, with round holes in them, as if
they had been bored with an awl ?

Aunt Maria. Yes. When the animal is
sucked out, the empty shell is washed on
shore.

John. If I were a cockle I would be cun-
ning. I would creep into one of these empty
shells, and then if a trochus came along and
saw the hole, he would think there was no-
body at home.

Aunt Maria. What if he should happen
to catch you walking ?

John. A shell-fish walk ? That makes
me laugh.

Aunt Maria. But they do walk ; and by
many ingenious contrivances, they manage to
do very well without feet. When scallop-shells
are left on the beach by the retiring tide, the
animal that inhabits them throws the valves
of his shell wide open, and closing them with
a sudden jerk, throws himself forward five
or six inches. By repeating this process, he
at last gets back to' the sea. Some oysters
thrust one end of their shell in the sand, till
they stand nearly upright, and wait for the

176 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

coming tide to pitch them over. The sea-
urchin has a shell full of small holes, through
each of which he pushes' a horn, something
like a snail's. On these he rolls over, like
the wheel of a coach, until he reaches the
end of his journey. From his appearance,
when these horns are thrust out, he is often
called the sea-hedge-hog, or porcupine. The
river-muscle digs a hole in the sand with his
feet, and by a violent motion brings his shell
into it upright ; then he pushes the sand away
till he brings himself flat again. Then he
digs another hole, and thus slowly creeps on.

John. The clumsy, awkward things !

Aunt Maria. They are not all awkward.
The Ostrea Imbricata, or the Imbricated
Oyster, has the faculty of leaping, like a fly-
ing squirrel. When darting through the
billows, their gay and sparkling colours look
very beautiful. They are sometimes called
butterflies of the ocean. When the sea is
calm, whole fleets of them may be seen with
shells raised up to catch the breeze ; but if
a gust of wind rises, they dive instantly.

Then there is the beautiful, fragile shell,
called the Argonaut, or Paper Nautilus. The
animal which inhabits this graceful little
fairy-boat, can come up to the surface of the
sea, whenever he chooses to make his vesse]

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 177

lighter, by throwing out water. He has a
fine thin membrane, which he raises for a
sail. He throws out two long arms for oars,
and steers with his other arms. It is the de-
light of sailors to see these little fleets scud-
ding before the wind. They receive the
name of Argonauts from the crew of the old
Greek ship Argo, the most ancient sailors on
record. Some suppose that the first idea of
making: vessels with sails and oars was susr-
gested by these little pearly boats. These
shells are not very common. It is almost
impossible to catch them while sailing ; for
at the slightest approach of danger, the cun-
ning Argonaut takes in his sail, and draws
in water enough to sink him instantly. When
taken, they are usually fished up on rocky
shores ; but the shells are so very brittle,
that it is extremely difficult to bring them
home safely. There is one species called
Argonauta Vitreus, or Glass Argonaut, be-
cause it is as transparent as glass. These
are extremely rare, and valued very highly.
There is another beautiful shell called the
Nautilus, which is shaped somewhat like the
Argonaut, but it is less graceful, and thicker
and stronger. The animal that lives in it,
can sail in it like a boat, but he generally
floats on tne water, with his shell on his back.
12

178 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

The winding part of his little pearly palace
is divided into various chambers, sometimes
thirty or forty, one above another, separated
by floors of pearl. The Asiatics make
drinking cups of this shell, and greatly ad-
mire it for its beauty and singular construc-
tion.

John. Are pearls made of* this shell ?

Aunt Maria. No. Pearls are obtained
from two or three species of oyster. The
most famous of these is the Mytilus Marga-
ritiferus, or Pearl-bearing Muscle. They
abound on the coast of Ceylon and the Per-
sian Gulf. Some of the shells contain ten
or twelve pearls, others not any. They vary
much in size, form, and colour. Some are
large as a walnut : but these are rare. The
smallest are called seed-pearls. Some are
yellow, some silvery white, some lead colour,
and some black. Some are round, some
pear-shaped, and some onion-shaped. They
lie in the shells, and are washed out. It is
generally supposd that nature provides the
pearl-0}7ster with this substance to mend or
enlarge his shell, as he has need. There is
a hard substance inside the crab, which he
dissolves in order to make a new shell when
he leaves his old one.

John. What does he leave his shell for ?

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 179

Aunt Maria. ' Because he outgrows it, as
you do your last year's clothes. Crabs and
lobsters cast their shells, as snakes do their
skins. For a little while, they have no other
covering than a very thin membrane, like
the skin between an egg and its shell. They
hide away under rocks until the new shell
has grown.

John. I should not like to do so, while I
was waiting for a new suit of clothes. But
how do they get the oysters that have pearls
in them ?

Aunt Maria. Divers go down into the
sea, with ropes fastened about the waist, and
heavy stones tied to them. It is a very dif-
ficult and dangerous trade. The divers are
often devoured by sharks, and their health
always suffers by this business. The oysters
lie eight or ten fathoms deep, and fasten
themselves so strongly to the rocks, that it
requires great force to tear them away. The
pressure of the water at that depth is dread-
ful. It forces the blood from nose, eyes and
ears, and occasions sounds in the head like
the report of a gun. Divers go down with
nostrils and ears stuffed with cotton, to pre-
vent the water from getting in ; and to the
arm is fastened a sponge dipped in oil, which
they now and then hold before the mouth

180 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

in order to breathe without swallowing wa-
ter. Since the invention of the diving-bell,
the dangers and difficulties of the pearl fish-
ery are lessened, but it is still a very disa-
greeable employment.

John. Men must care a great deal for
pearls, to take so much trouble for them.

Aunt Maria. Those who dive are poor
men, willing to run much risk to earn mo-
ney. Rich people value pearls for their
beauty, and are willing to pay large sums of
money for them ; but I think they would go
without those beautiful jewels, if they had to
dive for them themselves. Roman history
tells of a pearl which Cleopatra dissolved
and drank to the health of Anthony. Ac-
cording to PJiny, that pearl was valued at
about 8375,000 of our present money. I
suppose the Egyptian queen, in her pride and
vanity, never thought how much the poor
diver suffered to obtain her precious jewel.
A pearl valued at 80,000 ducats was given
to Phillip II., king of Spain. It was oval,
and as large as a pigeon's egg. The value
of pearls has been lessened in modern times,
by the manufacture of artificial pearls of
great beauty.

John. What Is mother-of-pearl, of which
they make such handsome buttons and boxes?

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 181

Aunt Maria. It is the inner part of the
shell of the Pearl Muscle. Beautiful little
articles are likewise made of the Haliotis, or
Sea-Ear. This shell is lustrous as a pearl,
and is splendidly variegated with all the co-
lours of the rainbow. When polished, it is
as rich as a peacock's tail. Large pearls
are sometimes found in the Chama Gigas, or
Giant Clam, the largest of all shells. Lin-
naeus describes one which weighed 498
English pounds. He says the violent closing
of its valves has been known to snap a cable
in two ; and the animal it contained has sup-
plied one hunt1 red and twenty men with a
day's food. 0 ie of these huge shells was
presented by the Venetians to Francis I.,
king of France. It is still used as a baptis-,
mal font, in the church of St. Sulpice, in Pa-
ris. It is common to place a shell of this
kind on the table, at the anniversary feast of
the Pilgrims, in Plymouth.

John. These shell-fish seem to be the
most helpless of animals.

Aunt Maria. They have not been left
unprotected ; though we know little of their
means of protection, owing to the impossibi-
lity of observing them in their native ele-
ment. Most of them have little doors, which
they shut on the approach of danger, or

182 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

when troubled with a boisterous sea. Many
of the snail species seal up their shells at the
approach of winter, and do not open them
till spring returns. The Chiton or Coat of
Mail, has a shell formed of scales, lying one
over another, like shingles on a house, or
pieces of paicient armour. It looks like a
rough pebble creeping about among the
rocks, and wreaths of sea-weed ; but on the
slightest approach of danger, it rolls itself up
into a tight little ball, as the porcupine does.
The Pholas, or Pierce-Stone, is armed with
an instrument by which it can cut into wood,
coral, or rock, and hide itself securely. Many
of them are found in chalk, w aich must be a
pleasanter home for them than rocks and
stones. There is so much phosphorus about
the Pholas, that one of them in a bowl of
milk will render it so brightly luminous, that
all the objects round can be seen by its light.
Many marine animals are furnished with a
little bag of glutinous matter, with which
they spin threads,* like the spider or silk-
worm. By these threads they fasten them-
selves to the rocks. Sometimes these lines
are not more than two inches long; and
sometimes they are strong floating threads,
which can be drawn in, or let out, at plea
sure. This enables them to come up and

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 183

sport on the surface of the waves, and go
down whenever they choose. More than
one hundred and fifty of these cables are
sometimes employed to moor a single muscle.
The Solen, or Razor Sheath can dig pits in
the soft sand, and hide himself at a great
depth. The common oyster has the power
of throwing water from his shell with suffi-
cient force to keep off any ordinary enemy.

John. But a whole engine company would
be of no use against the Trochus. A mean
fellow, to be going about boring a hole into
other people's houses !

Aunt Maria. Another mean fellow is the
Caracol Soldata, rightly named the Soldier-
Snail. He is among fishes what the cuckoo
is among birds. The cuckoo builds no nest
for herself, but lays her eggs in other birds'
nests, and when the young cuckoo is hatch-
ed, he turns out all the rightful family. The
Soldier-Snail has no shell of his own, but
takes possession of the best one he can find.
When he outgrows his house, he goes in
search of another, and fights with any de-
fenceless shell-fish, who has a home more
convenient than his own. But the Pinna,
or Sea-King, has a little friend, that manages
to get his living as cunningly as any one 1
know of. The Pinnae fasten themselves to

184 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

rocks by means of thick tufts of thread, which
are often broken off for sale. In Sicily, the
women wash it, soak it in lemon-juice, dry it,
card, spin, and weave it into gloves and caps
of a beautiful golden brown colour. For this
reason, these shell-fish are often called Ocean
Silk- worms. They are blind, and constantly
annoyed by the Cuttle-Fish. But a small,
quick-sighted crab is said to lodge in the shell
with them, and give notice when danger ap-
proaches. When he sees provisions floating
near, he gives his friend Pinna a nip, and he
opens the valves of his shell, and draws in
the food, which answers for himself and his
little steward.

John. There is some sagacity among
shell-fishes, though they do seem so stupid.
But do you believe the little crab boards
with the Pinna, and gets his living by keep-
ing a sharp look-out for him ?

Aunt Maria. It is generally believed,
and has been so from ancient times. The
Greek Aristotle and the Roman Pliny both
speak of it as a fact in natural history. I
have read another anecdote of shell fishes,
which seems to me almost too much to be-
lieve. Lobsters are very fond of oysters,
and always feed upon them when they can
get a chance. It is said that a large oystei

LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 185

was one day lying on the beach, with his
shell thrown open, to enjoy the coming tide.
A lobster near by darted upon him ; but the
oyster made haste to shut up before the ene-
my could get in. Three times the lobster
tried it ; and three times the oyster was too
quick for him. At last, he took a pebble in
his claws, and threw it in, while the shell
was open. This prevented the oyster from
shutting his doors, and the lobster ate him.

John. That is a good story ; but I should
have to see it, before I could believe that a
lobster has so much cunning. I pity the poor
little fish ; they seem to have so many ene-
mies. If I must be a fish, I should rather be
a prodigious great whale.

Aunt Maria. Monarch as he is among
the fishes, his situation is by no means to be
envied. He is not only pursued and killed
by man, but he has formidable enemies among
his own species. The sword-fish and the
thrasher unite to torment him. The sword-
fish is armed with a long sharp horn, edged
like a saw. He runs under the whale and
pierces him with this horn ; and when the
huge creature in agony rushes to the top of
the water, the thrasher is there to strike at
him, till he drives him down again. He
lashes the waves in his fury, but his enemies

%

186 LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

are so much lighter than he is, that they
easily keep out of the way of his enormous
tail. Every time the distressed animal beats
the waves, it sounds like the report of a can-
non.

John. What immense creatures they must
be! '

Aunt Maria. The great Greenland whale
is usually from fifty to seventy feet long,
weighs as much as two hundred fat oxen,
and yields from twelve to twenty tons of
lamp oil. The mouth of a whaie is large
enough to contain a ship's jolly-boat full of
men. The whale-bone, of which so much
use is made, consists of layers of horn in the
upper jaw of the whale. One of these plates
is sometimes twelve feet long and a foot thick.
When the whale wants a dinner, he swims
rapidly below the surface of the water, with
his jaws wide open. A vast stream of water
consequently enters his capacious mouth,
bearing along a large quantity of small fish
and marine insects. The water escapes
again at the sides of his mouth, but the fish
get entangled in the whale-bone, as in a net.

John. I often see pictures of whales with
great arches of water streaming from their
heads. What do they do that for ?

Aunt Maria. Unlike other fishes, they

LIFE IN THE OCEAN.

187

have lungs, like human beings, and are there-
fore obliged to come up to the surface of the
water to breathe. The nostrils, or blow-
holes, through which they draw in the air,
are on the top of the head. In breathing
they make a very loud noise, and throw up
water, which at a little distance looks like
columns of smoke. Sometimes the whale
throws himself into a perpendicular posture,
and rearing his tail on high, beats the water
with such tremendous violence, that the sea
is thrown into foam for miles round, and the
air filled with vapours. When he cracks his
mighty tail, like a whip, the noise is heard for
miles.

THE NAUTILUS

THE SISTER'S HYMN.

ABOUT A VERY LITTLE BROTHER, WHO WENT A WAT FROU
THIS WORLD TO LIVE WITH THE ANGELS.

"They laid him in a chamber, whose windows opened
toward the sun-rising ; the name of the chamber was Peace ;
where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and
sang." Pilgrim's Progress.

rother James was a charming
boy,
Loving and full of glee —
It always filled our hearts with joy
His happy face to see.

He was so funny, yet so mild,

In all his infant plays —
I never saw a little child

That had such winning ways.

the sister's hymn. 189

I used to say, " The little birds

Do in their nests agree;11
And that he understood the words

Was plain as it could be.

For sometimes, if he chanced to fret,

He 'd nestle close to me,
And sorry for his little pet,

Would kiss, and lisp "gee, gee."

•

Oh, how he loved to run about,
And gather the spring posies !

He would have raised a merry shout,
To see the great red roses !

But his dear little soul was gone,
Ere the buds began to blow :

I wish he could have seen just one —
It would have pleased him so.

But father says he's gone away
To a world of brighter flowers,

Where little angels with him play
Through all the pleasant hours.

Sweetly his little laughing voice
Floats on the balmy air,

190 THE SISTER'S HYMN.

And many heavenly babes rejoice
To see my brother there.

They bring him little lambs and doves,
And joy shines in his face ;

For all the things our darling loves
Are in that blessed place.

And when he falls asleep at even,
• His dreams are bright and fair ;
His spirit feels at home in Heaven,
And thinks we're with him there.

FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN.

$art fifi

GOOD LITTLE MITTY

melia Osgood was a very
good little child. She was
as busy as a bee. You
know the bee works all
the long summer day, to
fill his honey-pots from
the flowers, before winter
comes.

When Amelia first began to talk, she
called her own name Mitty Osdood. The
words were too big for her little tongue, and
she could not speak them quite plain. This
made her older sister smile ; and afterward,
when she was quite a large girl, she always
called her Mitty.

I am sure Mitty had very bright eyes, for
they spied out every thing ; and I am very
sure she had a nimble tongue, for she talk-
ed about every thing. When her sister
Mary was sitting at work, Mitty would
r

12 GOOD LITTLE MITTY.

talk to ner all the time, unless Mary asked
her to be silent.

"Sister Ma-wee" she would say, "here
is a little fly eating up my sugar. He sucks,
sucks, sucks. Why don't he eat it up, sis-
ter Ma- wee ? How long it takes him to eat
a little crumb of sugar. There, you may
have it all, poor fly ; for I know you are
hungry, and have not had any breakfast.
My mother tells me to bring my little arm-
chair, and she ties on my little apron, and
gives me a porringer of good warm milk for
my breakfast, every morning. But you
have not got any mother, or any arm-chair,
poor little fly ; and you may eat all my
sugar for your breakfast. Now he has
stopped eating ; and he is rubbing his hands
together, just as kitty does when she washes
her paw. Kitty puts her tongue in the
milk, when she eats. Where is the fly's
tongue, sister Ma-wee?"

Mary called her a little chatterbox ; and
told her that the fly had a little tube in his
mouth, through which he sucked sugar, just
as little girls sometimes suck cider with a
straw. A few days after, Mitty went to
the Museum, and saw an elephant. She
saw him drink a bottle of wine, and pick
up half a dollar with his trunk. Then her

,

GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 13

sister told her that the little fly's tube was
very much like the elephant's trunk ; only
the fly's tube was very, very small, and the
elephant's trunk was very large indeed.

Mitty listened to all her sister said about
the elephant. When she got home, her
head was so full of what she had heard,
that she told her mother she had seen a
great big fly. This made her brother John
laugh very much. When his little sister
grew older, he loved to plague her, by call-
ing an elephant " Mitty' s fly."

Mitty was a very good-natured little girl.
I never heard her speak a cross word in my
life. When John laughed at her about the
elephant, she did not cry, or pout, or push
her brother away. She only said, "Sister Ma-
wee told me a fly was just like an elephant."

" Oh no, Mitty," said Mary ; " I did not
tell you a fly was just like an elephant. A
fly has wings, you know, and can fly away.
But the elephant has no wings ; he cannot
fly away. I only told you the fly had a
little tube, with which he sucked up his
food, very much like the elephant's trunk."

John kissed Mitty, and said she was a
very little girl, and could not understand all
that was told her; but she was the best lit-
tle playmate in the world. And because

14 GOOD LITTLE MITTY.

fihe was such a good-natured, pleasant little
girl, he asked her to go out in the sunshine,
and see him fclow soap-bubbles. Mitty was
very glad to go with her brother ; and she
gave him her hand, and ran jumping along,
as happy as a little butterfly among the
roses.

While John was fixing a bowl of soap
and water, to make the bubbles, she ran to
the barn to get a big straw for him. Her
little lamb heard her coming, and he ran to
her, crying, "baa! baa!" I do not be-
lieve there ever was a little girl more happy
than Mitty was then. She laughed so loud,
you might have heard her merry voice all
ovrer the garden. She loved her little lamb
dearly. She picked some sweet clover for
him, and he ate it from her hand. When
she went to carry the big straw to John, the
little lamb ran after her, as fast as he could
make his trotters go.

When John saw him come, he laughed,
and said, "One of these days, when the
Jamb is bigger, perhaps father will cut some
wool from his back, and mother will make
my little sis a nioe pair of lamb's wool
stockings. But kind little Mitty said, " Oh,
no indeed ; for then my little lamb would
be cold." John told her it would not make

GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 15

the lamb cold ; for father would cut off very
little wool, and he would cut it off when
the weather was very warm. So Mitty was
well pleased to think of having some nice
lamb's wool stockings.

She sat down on the grass with the lamb's
head in her lap, and watched the bright
soap-bubbles, as they rose up in the air.
Sometimes she would laugh so loud, and
clap her hands, that the little lamb would
jump upon his feet, to see what the matter
Could be.

There was a beautiful little humming
bird flying about among the vines in the
garden, and eating his supper in the honey-
suckle blossoms. When he flew up in the
air, his feathers shone with such bright co-
lours, that Mitty clapped her hands, and
shouted, "Oh, brother John, see, see that
bubble-bird !" She called him a bubble-
bird, because he had colours bright as the
rain-bow, and glittered in the sunlight, like
the soap-bubbles.

When Mitty went to bed that night, she
was very tired; for she. had played a great
deal, and her little feet ached. She fell
asleep in her little arm-chair, with her por-
ringer of milk half full in her lap. Her
mother undressed her, and was going to put

16 GOOD LITTLE MITTY.

her into bed, without hearing her say, "Now
I lay me down to sleep." She thought hei
little girl was too sleepy to say it. But
Mitty knelt down, and said, " I will say my
prayers, mother ; for God is very good to
me. He gave me my father, and my mo-
ther, and sister Ma-wee, and brother John.
He made my little lamb, and the bubble-
bird, and the great big elephant fly, and the
little fly, and the good old cow, that gives
me milk for my supper. , God loves little
Mitty, mother; and I will not go to sleep
without thanking God."

Her mother kissed her, and called her a
good little child; and Mitty folded her hands
in her mother's lap, and said her prayers.
Then her mother laid her down in her clean
soft bed, and kissed her, and bade her good-
night.

Mitty talked as long as she could keep
awake ; for she was a real chatterbox.
When her mother left her, she said, "Good
night, mother dear. When I am big enough,
I will knit father some stockings of my
lamb's wool ; and my little Bantam hen will
lay some eggs ; and when I am a great big
girl, I will make some custards for you."

If Mitty lives to be a woman, I am sure
she will be very good, and everybody will

GOOD LITTLE MITTY.

17

love her. I think so, because she is such a
kind, good-natured little girl. She never
speaks a cross word, and she always obeys
her father and mother. Yes, I am very
sure Mitty will be a good woman.

THE SAUCY LITTLE SQUIREEL

gentleman went into the
woods to stay all day. He
took with him two ears of
roasted corn and some
bread for dinner. After a
while, he sat down under
a tree to rest himself, and
a little squirrel came capering about. The
ears of roasted corn were lying in some
clean paper, on the ground. I suppose the
little squirrel liked the smell of them. He
acted very much as if he wanted to carry
them off. He looked at the corn, and then
he looked in the gentleman's face. When
he saw him smile, he took hold of one ear
of corn with his little sharp teeth, and tried
to drag it away; but it was quite too heavy
for him. So he nibbled off the kernels, and
stuffed his mouth as full as he could. Then
he trotted off to his house under the ground,

THE SAUCY LITTLE SQUIRREL. 19

and put the corn away for his dinner. He
came back again, and stuffed his cheeks as
full as they could hold.

He looked up in the gentleman's face, as
if he wanted to ask whether he would whip
him for taking his corn. But the gentleman
loved the squirrel ; and he did not make any
noise to frighten him away. So the pretty
little creature came to the tree again, and
again ; and every time he came, he carried
off as much as his mouth would hold. He
did not leave one single kernel of corn on
the ears. I wonder his little feet were not
tired, before he got it all stowed away in his
house.

I should love to go into the woods, and
have a little squirrel come and look up in
my face, and carry off my dinner.

THE VISIT.

nn and Maria were sisters.
One summer's day. they
went to see some little girls
rather older than they
were. Their names were
Harriet and Isabella. Ann
and Maria were afraid.
They had never seen the little girls they
were going to visit ; and they thought they
should not know what to say.

But when they came to the house, they
soon felt very happy. Harriet and Isabella
did all they could to please them. They took
them by the hand very kindly, and led them
out to the barn, to see their white hens, and
their grey hens, and their nice little brood of
chickens. One of the chickens, not much
bigger than a butterfly, jumped upon its
mother's back, and the old hen walked all
round the yard with her little one. Maria

THE VISIT. 21

was small, and could not speak quite plain.
She clapped her hands and said, " O, see
that ittle chitten riding puss-back."

The girls all laughed, and Harriet said,
"I think the chicken is riding hen-back."

Maria puckered up her little mouth, and
began to feel grieved ; for she thought they
were making fun of her. "Ann, don't the
chitten ride just as I do, up tairs and down
tairs, on father's shoulders ?" said she.

Harriet kissed her, and called her a good
child. She knew it was not kind or polite
to laugh at very little children because they
cannot speak plain.

The white hen was running round the
yard, with a kernel of corn in her mouth,
and the grey hen was running after her.
Isabella pointed her finger at them. "I think
that white hen is a very stingy hen," said
she : " see her run all over the field, and
away down into the orchard, just for the
sake of eating that morsel of corn all by
herself."

"I would not be so stingy for all the
world," said Ann; and so said all the little
girls.

When the children were tired of looking
at the chickens, they brought little chairs
and crickets, and seated themselves under

22 THE VISIT.

a large elm-tree. There was a sweet-briar
bush near by, covered with beautiful red
seed-vessels, almost as large as cherries.
Ann said the berries would make a sweet
pretty necklace. " I will go into the house,
and askmother for a big needle and thread,"
said Isabella, " and we will string some of
them for you and Maria."

" And will you string one for kitty's neck,
too?" asked Maria. Isabella promised that
the kitten should have a necklace. She soon
came back with needles and thread.

While they were stringing the bright red
berries, Harriet said she would -go into the
garden and gather some flowers, to make a
wreath for Maria's hair. "Will you make
one for me to carry home to little puss '?"
said Maria. She peeped up into Harriet's
face so prettily, with her bright blue eyes,
that she could not help running to kiss the
little darling. "You are a good little puss
yourself," said she, " and I will make a nice
little garland for your kitten's neck."

" I love her little kitten," said Ann. " She
lies in my lap and purrs so good-naturedly.
Aunt Maria says that is the way cats
laugh."

Harriet asked her mother's leave, and
then ran into the garden, to gather an apron

THE VISIT. 23

full of flowers. When she came back,
Maria was crying, and stamping her little
feet. Ann stood a great way from her, with
her hands behind her back, looking very
cross. When Maria ran a few steps toward
her sister, she ran away as fast as her feet
would carry her. Maria tried to run after
her, but she hit her little foot against a
stone, and fell down, and cut her lip.

"What is the matter?" asked Harriet.
"I left you all so happy when I went in the
garden, and now you are all in trouble."

" Ann found a nice ripe pear on the
ground," said Isabella; " and she hid it be-
hind her back, and was not willing to give
her sister a piece."

They took the little girl up, and wiped
the blood from her mouth, and tried to com-
fort her. When Ann saw how much her
little sister was hurt, she felt sorry, and very
much ashamed. "I thought you would
not be so stingy as our white hen, for all the
world," said Isabella; " and now you have
been running away just for the sake of eat-
ing a pear all by yourself."

Ann began to cry, and said she was very
sorry she had acted so much like the stingy
hen. When they had washed Maria's
mouth, she kissed her, and gave her half the

24

THE VISIT.

pear. Then they were all happy again.
Little children are always happy, when
they are kind and obliging to each other.

At sundown, their mother came in a
chaise, to take them home. They kissed
their little playmates, and bade them good-
bye a dozen times. They talked very fast
all the way home, telling their mother what
a charming time they had.

THE NEW-ENGLAND BOY'S SONG

ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY.

'ver the river, and through the
wood,
To grandfather's house we go ;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away !

We would not stop

For" doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving day.

26 THE NEW-EN GLAND BOt's SONG

Over the river, and tl^?ngh the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow !
It stings the toes,
A.nd bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play —

Hear the bells ring

Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving day!

Over the river, and through the wood —
No matter for winds that blow ;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset, •
Into a bank of snow.

ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY. 27

Over the river, and through the wc^od,

To see little John and Ann ;

We will kiss them all,

And play snow-ball,

And stay as long as we can.

Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving day !

Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard
gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.

Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells ;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.

*

28

THE NEW-ENGLAND BOY'S SONG.

Over the river, and through the wood —
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.

Over the river, and through the wood —
Now grandmother's cap I spy !

Hurra for the fun !

Is the pudding done 1
Hurra for the pumpkin pie !

THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL.

't come to-night, I
know they won't come,"
said Julia to her mother.
"Oh yes, they will, my
dear," replied her mother;
"it is not late yet."

Julia was expecting
some little girls to come and play with her;
and she was not so patient as a good little
daughter should be, when mother is kind
enough to invite her friends. A minute or
two after, she said again, "Mother, I'm sure
they won't come. The sun has gone away
from the last paving-stone in the yard. I
know they won't come."

"If you are so fretful, I shall not invite

your friends to come and see you again,"

said her mother. "I am not fretful," said

Julia, "but I do wish they would come."

While Julia said this, she was dressing a

30 THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL.

large wax doll ; and she was in a great fid-
get, for fear it would not be dressed before
the little girls came. Her aunt Mary had
made the doll a pretty robe of white muslin,
and Julia wished very much to put it on.
The robe was too short, and her mother told
her she had better rip the wide hem very
carefully, and make a narrower one. Julia
began very well, but there was a knot in
the thread, and she would not wait for her
mother's advice. She took a pin, and pull-
ed upon the knotty stitch, with all her
strength. She tore the muslin badly, and
began to fret.

"If you had been slow and careful, you
would not have spoiled that pretty robe,"
said her mother; "I wish my little daughter
would learn to be more patient."

Before Julia could find another gown for
her doll, two of the little girls came. She
was so impatient to see them, that she flung
the doll down in her little brother's chair,
and ran to take off their bonnets and shawls.
When her brother heard the bell ring, he
wanted to climb in his chair, to look out of
the window. He stepped on the doll, and
broke it to pieces. When Julia came back
for her doll, she found the face all smashed,
and the pretty black eyes rolling on the floor

THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 31

She cried with vexation, and began to make
loud complaints of George. But her mother
said, " Your brother is not to blame. He is
a very little boy, and he did not know the
doll was in his chair. You should never
be in such a hurry, that you do not mind
where you throw your playthings."

More little girls came soon. When they
saw the pieces of the doll, they all said it
was a great pity such a beautiful thing
had been thrown down so carelessly. They
all went into the parlour, and began to play
Hide-and-go-seek. They enjoyed this very
well, for a short time; but Julia soon began
to grow impatient. When she was blind-
ed, she would open one eye a little, so that
she could see where the handkerchief was
hidden. If the little girls did not find it
very quick, she would tell them where it
was. Her playmates said there was no fun
in this ; and they would not play Hide-
and-go-seek any longer.

Julia saw that her visiters were offended
with her, and she did not feel pleasantly at
all. But they soon became good-natured
again. A little girl, named Catherine, said,
c- Now let us play the Grand Mufti." Some
of them said they did not know how to
play it. But Catherine said, " Look at me;

32 THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL.

and whenever I say, cAs says the Grand
Mufti,' you must do whatever I do. But
when I say, lSo says the Grand Mufti,' you
must be careful not to do what I do."

They began the play, and she tried to
speak as quick as ever she could. It was
very hard to remember whether she said so
or as; and they made a thousand mistakes.
She snapped her fingers, and said, " So
says the Grand Mufti ;" and they all snap-
ped their fingers.

" That is wrong," cried Catherine, " I
told you not to do as I did, when I said,
<$o says the Grand Mufti.'"

Then she said, "As says the Grand Muf-
ti," and began to dance. The little girls
remembered that they had made a wrong
motion before, and all but one stood still.

This amused little George very much.
He began to shake his curly head, and
laugh merrily. But Julia grew impatient
again. Every time Catherine spoke, she
repeated so and as, very loud, that the little
girls might not make a mistake. Catherine
said there was no fun in playing so • and
they gave up the Grand Mufti.

Some of the girls were quite discontented,
and wanted to go home. Julia went cry-

THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 33

ing to her mother, and said, " My company
want to go home. What shall I do?"

Her mother went to inquire what was the
matter; and the children said, " We can-
not play anything. Julia spoils all our fun."
The mother said, "My little daughter wish-
es to make you all happy ; and I think she
will try not to be impatient any more."

Julia promised she would ; and they all
began to play Hunt-the-thimble. But when
little girls allow themselves to form a bad
habit, it is not easy to leave it off, all at
once. After a while, Julia forgot her prom-
ise. If she knew what little girl had the
thimble, she would call out, "I know where
it is : somebody with a blue sash has got
it." When the children found she would
not wait for her turn, they said they would
not give a cent to play so ; and they gave
it all up.

They went home early, and said to one
another, " Julia showed us many pretty
things, and we begun many pleasant plays ;
but she spoiled it all, by being so impatient."

Julia's mother talked very seriously with
her. "My little daughter," said she, "do
you not see that you make yourself disa-
greeable, and everybody uncomfortable, by
always being in such a fidget?"

34

THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL.

"Yes, indeed I do," said Julia, wiping
her eyes : "I lotted a great deal on this
party ; but I have not been happy at all. I
have torn my doll's frock, and broken my
doll, and spoiled all the girls' plays. I will
try to do as you tell me. When you tell
me to wait, I will be as patient as I can ;
and when my little playmates come to see
me again, I will try not to break up their
plays by my impatience. Oh, mother, do
you think I shall ever be a patient little
girl?"

Her mother told her that she felt quite
sure she would be, if she would only try.

LITTLE RUNAWAYS

mall children should never
venture out in the streets
alone. They are almost
sure to get into trouble by-
it. One day, when I was
walking in the streets of
Boston, I met a little girl,
who was crying very hard. I asked her
what was the matter.

"I don't know where my mother lives,"
said she; and she sobbed so that she could
not speak any more.

I took her hand, and tried to comfort her.
I asked her how she came to get lost.

" Mother told me I might sit on the door-
step," said she. " A pretty little dog went
by, and I wanted to catch him. So I ran
after him. But the little dog went off with
a great dog, as fast as he could go. I wajj
afraid of the great dog. and I tried to run.
t 3 *

36 LITTLE RUNAWAY.?.

home again. But my home had gone away,
and now I don't know where it is." Then
she began to sob again.

I asked her in what street her mother
lived. " She knows, but 1 don't," said the
poor child.

I did not know where to carry her, and I
told her she had better go home with me.
This made her sob worse. " Oh, I want to
see my mother ! I want to see my mother !"
said she : "how I do wish my mother would
come and find me."

I told her she must never go in the street
alone again, till she was bigger : for she was
not old enough to find her way, and there
were many horses in the street, that might
run over her. She said if she ever found
her way home, she would never run away
again, so long as she lived. As I was walk-
ing along with her, and she was wiping
her eyes with the corner of her apron, I saw
a woman, who looked at every little girl she
met. I thought perhaps she was mother to
the lost one : and sure enough she was. As
soon as the little runaway saw her, she let
go of my hand, and ran faster than the
little dog she wanted to catch. She caught
hold of her mother's gown, and cried, and
laughed, and jumped up and down.

LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 37

Her mother was very glad to see her.
She kissed her a great many times, and
hugged her close to her heart. When she
told her how naughty it was to run away,
and how she had frightened her poor mo-
ther, the little girl began to cry again. She
said she never would go away from the door
step alone again.

I knew another little girl, about three
years old, whose name was Lucy. She
was generally a pretty good girl ; but one
day she did a very naughty thing, and
made her mother very much ashamed. Her
father and mother had gone to church, and
Lucy was left in the care of her nurse.
While the nurse was dusting the chairs in
the parlour, Lucy went into the kitchen, and
crowded her whole apron into a bowrl of soft
soap. Then she began to wash it, as she
had seen the washer- woman do. The nurse
called to her, to know what she was doing:
and when she did not answer, she went
into the kitchen to see what she wras about.
Lucy cried very much, when the soaped
apron was taken from her ; and while the
nurse went to get a clean apron, she ran
off.

I do not know what made little Lucy so
very naughty that day. She knew her fa-

38 LITTLE RUNAWAYS,

ther and mother had gone to church ; and
she ran along the dusty road, till she came
to the church door. She ran right in, among
all the people. She had been crying, her
face was spotted with soft soap, and her
gown was very wet with the water she had
spilled. Of course, she was a strange look-
ing child. She did not know where to find
her father and mother, and when she saw
the people looking at her, she began to cry.
A man led her out of the church, and show-
ed her the way home. Her mother sat far
from the church door, and she did not know
what child it was, who came in with a wet
gown and a dirty face, and disturbed the
people by crying. When she heard that it
was her own little girl, she was very much
grieved. She told Lucy that she could not
kiss her when she went to bed that night,
because she had been so very naughty.

This made Lucy very unhappy. When
the nurse put her to bed, she said, "Oh
dear, if my mother will only kiss me to-
morrow night, and call me her good little
girl, I will never run away again in my
life."

There was another little girl in Boston,
whose name was Ann. She ran away with
her brother one day, to ,see the pond on the

LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 39

Common. When she got there, she let go
of her brother's hand; and because she was
not big enough to take care of herself, she
fell into a mud puddle. Her clean gown
was all covered with mud, and so were her
hands and face. Some men took her out
of the puddle, and gave her to her brother
to be carried home. She was so much fright-
ened and ashamed, that she cried all the
way. Even after her mother had washed
her, and put on clean clothes, she kept sob-
bing for a long time. She never forgot how
frightened she was, when she felt herself
sinking down in the* mud puddle. When-
ever she saw the gown she had on then,
she was sure to say, " That is the gown I
had on when I ran away to the Common."

She thought there could be nothing half
so bad in the world, as falling into^a mud-
puddle. One day, she heard her*brother
read in the Bible about Job. She asked
who Job was. Her mother told her he was
a very good man, who met with a great
deal of trouble, but was always patient.
She looked up, with a very serious face,
and said, " Mother, do you think Job ever
fell into a mud-puddle, when he was a lit-
tle boy?"

This made all the folks laugh. Poor Ann

40 LITTLE RUNAWAYS.

had been so frightened, that she thought
nobody could ever meet with any thing
worse than falling into the mud.

She was always very careful after that ;
and never went away from home without
her mother gave her leave.

I knew two little brothers in Boston, who
went out to make sand-pies, in a heap of
sand before the door. When nobody was
looking at them, they ran away. They
thought it was very good fun to be in the
street alone ; and they ran about like wild
things. By and by, they came to an open
field, and they crept through the fence, and
went to walk on the grass. They had al-
ways lived in the city, and the grass felt
very pleasant to their feet. They went on
till they were tired; and then they lay down
on the^ grass, and rolled over and over.
Then they jumped up, and walked on, and
walked on, till they came to a place where
there were many trees, and red clover, and
weeds with big white flowers. They talk-
ed to a bird they saw on a bush, and tried
to catch a butterfly. They thought it was
a very fine thing to run away from home.

But at last they began to feel very hun-
gry, and very tired. They wanted to go
back to their mother, but they did not know

LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 41

the way, and their little feet ached so, that
they could not walk. The younger one had
but one shoe ; for when he tried to step over
a small brook, his foot slipped in, and stuck
fast in the mud. When he pulled his foot
out, he could not find his shoe. Afterward,
the stones cut his foot, and made it bleed.
The poor little fellow lay down and cried.
Every minute, he kept saying, " I want to
go to my mother. I want to go to my mo-
ther."

The older brother washed his lame foot
with some water from the brook, and that
made him feel a little better. They wrere
very hungry indeed, but they could find no-
thing to eat but two berries. Once, the}^
came near a house, and they would have
gone in, but a great dog barked at them,
and made them afraid. The dog would not
have barked at them, if he had known they
were poor little lost children ; for he was a
very kind dog. The little boys did not
Know what a good dog he was. They
thought he would bite. So they ran away
into the fields again.

They had no dinner, and no supper.
Night was coming on very fast, and they
had no bed to sleep on. The little squirrels
went into their nests, and slept nicely with

42 LITTLE RUNAWAYS.

their mothers. But these little naughty
runaways had no nest, and their good mo-
ther was far away from them. They laid
down on the grass, and put their arms round
each other's necks, and cried themselves to
sleep. If good little robin red-breast had
seen them, I suppose he would have brought
leaves in his mouth, and covered them up,
as he did the little Children in the Wood.

The mother of these little runaway boys
was very unhappy. She cried all night,
because she had lost her children. The
crier went through the streets ringing his
bell, and calling out, so that all the people
could hear him, " Two little children lost !"
He told every body he met that one of the
little boys had blue eyes and light hair, and
the other one had dark eyes and brown hair;
and that neither of them could speak plain.
But nobody in Boston knew any thing about
the little ones. The poor mother thought
she should never see her children again;
and she cried as if her heart would break.
How naughty it was in these little boys to
disobey their mother, and make her so un-
happy.

They were so very tired that night, that
they slept on the grass, till the sun was
very high up hi the sky. A woman, who

LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 43

went to the brook to get a pail of water,
saw them lying there, folded in each other's
arms. At first, she thought it was a heap
of clothes ; but when she came nearer, she
found two little sleeping boys. She waked
them up, and asked them where they came
from. The younger one said, "Ma, Ma;"
and the older one said Bos. He meant to
say Boston, but he could not speak it;
and the woman did not understand him.
They were very dirty and very pale. The
kind woman took the youngest in her arms,
and the elder by the hand, and led them to
her house. There she washed them, and
put a rag on the lame foot, and gave them
some good bread and milk. This made
them feel better ; but they soon began to
cry, "I want to see my mother. I want to
see my mother."

The woman did not know who their mo-
ther was, or where she lived. So she wrote
a story about two little children found in
the fields, and put it in the newspaper, that
every body might read it. The mother of
the little runaways read the story, and she
jumped up for joy. " Those are my little
lost children," said she, " and I will go and
bring them home."

44

LITTLE RUNAWAYS.

Oh, how glad she was to see them again !
and how glad they were to see their mother !
She kissed them and cried, and then kissed
them and cried again. And the little boys
put their arms about mother's neck and
kissed her, and cried too.

The little boys never wanted to run away
again as long as they lived.

ROBINS

®very child has seen little
Hi robin red-breasts, and
heard many pretty stories
about them. Every body
loves little red robin, and
robin seems to know, too,
that she is a great favour-
ite ; for she hops round the door-step, and
picks up crumbs, and is not the least afraid.

4b ROBINS.

One day, when the air was very cold, a
robin pecked at the window of a poor man
in Germany, and seemed to ask as plain as
she could, whether she might come in. The
good man opened the window for the poor
little creature, and robin seemed very glad.
She picked up the crumbs that fell from the
table ; for she was very hungry. The chil-
dren scattered plenty of crumbs for her,
and they were greatly delighted to see her
hop up on their shoes.

When the grass began to grow green
again, in the spring, robin flew away into
the woods, and made a neat little nest in
the bushes, and laid three pretty blue eggs.
Out of these eggs came little birds ; and
robin fed them, like a careful mother. She
did not come into the house, but she would
often perch on a tree by the window, and
sing the children a pretty song.

When winter comes, the robins fly away
to a warmer country, because they do not
like to have their bare toes on the snowy
ground. But this little robin red-breast re-
membered the good friends that had taken
care of her; and when the weather was
cold she hopped into the cottage, and
brought a little mate along with her. The
children clapped their hands for joy. They

ROBINS. 47

made robin and her mate a snug little roost
in a warm corner. When they were eating,
the birds would hop about on the table, and
pick up the crumbs from the plates. " How
cunning they lookup, with their bright little
eyes," said the children. "It seems as if
these dear little birds wanted to speak to
us."

" If they could speak," answered the fa-
ther, " they* would tell us that they trust us,
because we are kind to them. If men loved
all the little creatures of the woods, and
treated them gently, they would never be
afraid of men."

It seemed as if little robin red-breast un-
derstood what the good father was saying ;
for she hopped into his hand, and warbled
a song.

And now I will tell you about two little
Irish robins. They came hopping into a
doctor's room, one day, and looked round
for a place to build a nest. They took a
fancy to a shelf in the corner of the room ;
but a small gallipot of medicine stood in
their way. They pushed against it, and
pushed against it, and finally, by working
very hard, made it fall on the floor. They
seemed much pleased when the gallipot was
out of the way ; and they immediately be-

48 ROBINS.

gan to bring in straws, to make a nest.
Many people came into the room, and looked
at them ; but they did not mind that. The
doctor threw wool and moss on the floor,
and they would pick it up, to line their nest.
In four days, they finished the nest, and the
mother bird laid seven pretty little eggs in
it. While she was setting on the eggs, her
mate brought her food to eat, and sung
pleasant songs to her.

In twelve days, the little ones were chirp-
ing about her ; and the father and mother
both had as much as they could do to feed
their large family. The kind doctor placed
a pan of groats on the shelf, and the old
birds used them freely, to feed their young.
One day, they found their way into the
pantry, and began to peck at the butter.
First, they would carry a grain of corn to
their little ones, and then a piece of butter.
Being fed in this way, they soon became so
fat, that they could hardly see out of their
eyes.

The old birds kept the nest very neat in-
deed; but the doctor observed that they
always cleaned it with their bills : and he
did not like to have them pecking at his
butter. He placed a cup of lard near them,
and they seemed to like it just as well.

ROBINS. 49

The o,d birds and the young birds were
all as sociable as possible. The mother
would hop on the dinner table, to pick up
the crumbs, and would stand still while the
children patted her on the head. The fa-
ther would fly about, and perch on the tops
of the chairs, and twitter and chirp, as if it
made him very happy to have his family
so well taken care of.

When the little ones were large enough,
they flew away; but the old ones chose to stay
with their friend the doctor. After a time,
they made another nest, and soon had a fa-
mily of six little ones. They fed them with
groats and lard, as they had done the others;
and they grew very fat and strong. But
when they began to fly, two of them flut-
tered over the grate, and fell into the fire,
and were burned to death.

The father and mother were very atten-
tive to their little family. , When not bring-
ing them food, the father sat on a peg in
the wall, and kept a look out on all that
was going on. If a cat walked into the
house, he would fly screaming to his friend,
the doctor, and would not rest till the cat
was driven away. He would then twitter
and chirp, as if he were glad, and go back
to his nest to look at his little ones. He

50 K.OB3KS.

was very fond of milk, and often went into
the pantry to drink from a bowl that was
left open for him. The young ones flew
away, when they were big enough; but all
winter long, the old ones slept on pegs in
the doctor's bed-room. In the morning,
they would wake him up, 'by whirring
round his pillow ; and then they would tap
on the window to be let out into the fresh
air.

Next spring, the mother-bird built in the
garden, and she never again made a nest in
the house. She seemed to remember that
two of her young ones had been burned to
death there. The father-bird flew into the
house for groats and lard, and milk. When
he saw any cat coming near his nest, he
would go screaming to his friend, the doc-
tor, and fly along before him, to show him
where the cat was.

Is it not pleasant to be thus loved by the
little creatures of the woods and fields '? If
we are always kind and gentle, every thing
will love us. Our Heavenl)r Father made
us all to live together in love, and to make
each other happy.

THE SPRING BIRDS,

^ow we know that winter's done,
For a troop of swallows come,
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

Oh, they are sweet pretty things !
Flying round with rapid wings,
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

.The swallow knows no other tune,
But always sings to May and June,
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.
4

52 THE SPRING BIRDS.

In the barn she builds her nest,
In the corner she likes best,
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

See ! she took a hair just now,
From the back of Moolly cow.
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

If the sheep should drop some wool,
She will give it many a pull ;
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

From the hen she gets a feather,
And she weaves the whole together;
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

But when her little ones can fly,
They bid us all a kind good-bye;
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere,

THE SPRING BIRDS.

53

Swallows come with the first spring day,
And with summer they go away;
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

Poor little swallows have to go ;
They do not like the frost and snow ;
They could not twitter in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

But when spring comes with sun and rain,
The swallows will come back again ;
Twitter, twitter, in the air,
Twitter, twitter, everywhere.

LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY.

hat is the matter, Mary?
Why do you throw your
pretty patch-work on the
floor, and stamp upon it
so?"

Mary's cheeks were very
red. She felt ashamed
that her mother should see her behave so.
She wanted some excuse ; and she said, " It
is very ugly patchwork, mother ; very ugly
indeed. The needle is very ugly, too. It
pricks my fingers every minute.

" The needle is not naughty, hut my lit-
tle girl is not good-natured," said her mo-
ther, " You push your needle in a hurry,
and that makes it prick your finger."

" I do not love to sew. May I get my
playthings?" asked little Mary. Her mo-
ther told her she might get them. So Mary
brought out her wooden lion, and' her little

LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY. 55

china lamb, and her doll, and a little milk-
maid with a churn. Mary twitched the
string that made the milk-maid churn, and
it broke. Then she could not raise her arm
up and down any more.

Mary began to cry quite loud. ™ What
is the matter?" asked her mother.

" This is a very ugly milk-maid," said
Mary ; " she will not churn any more."

" The string broke, because you pulled it
too hard," said her mother.

Before Mary could dry up her eyes, her
father, and her little cousins, George and
Charlotte, came in. When her father ask-
ed what made her eyes look so red, her
mother said, " Little Mary is cross to-day."

I "Oh no, I am not cross," said Mary ; and

j she was going to cry again. But her father
spoke to her very kindly, and though her

i lip trembled a little, because she was very
much grieved, she did not cry loud.

She ran to find her very little pail, full of
pretty popping-corn, that she might show it

;;to her cousins. Charlotte gave her a little
swan and a piece of steel. The swan's mouth
was made of magnet. Magnet loves steel,
and always tries to go to it. They put the
swan in a basin of water, and held the
steel a little way from him. Then the bird

,

56 LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY.

began to swim toward the steel, because the
magnet in his mouth wanted to get hold of
it. It made Mary laugh to see the swan go
round wherever the steel moved. She fas-
tened a crumb of bread on the steel, and
held it to him, and called, " Come, biddy,
come." The bird went after the bread, just
as he would if he had been alive and hun-
gry. Charlotte told her that if she held it
too near the swan, the magnet would take
hold of the steel.

George and Charlotte went into the next
room, to play with the bow and arrow, and
little pail of corn. While they were there,
Mary held the steel too near the bird, and
the magnet and steel fastened together, like
two pieces of wax. Mary screamed out.
She forgot that when her father looked so
kindly at her, she did not mean to cry any
more that day.

Her mother came running in, to see if she
were hurt.

" What ! is my little daughter crying
again?" said she.

" I did not mean to cry any more," said
Mary; "but this swan is very ugly. He
bit the piece of steel."

"The swan is not naughty," said her fa-
ther : "my own Mary is not good-natured.

LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DA'I. 57

Your cousin told you that the magnet and
steel would fasten together, if you put them
too near. You could easily have pulled it
away; or you could have asked Charlotte
to come and take it off. Would it not have
been much better than to scream so ?"

Mary held down her head, and said it
would have been much better ; and she
promised her father that she would try to
be pleasant all day. But soon after, George
came running with a dead butterfly, that
he found in the window. He struck his
foot against Mary's little pail, and spilled
all the corn on the floor. " Oh, dear," said
Mary, " what an ugly pail !" and she began
to cry again.

When George had picked up all the corn,
and Mary was quiet once more, Charlotte
asked her aunt if she would be so good as
to cut out some houses, and trees, and dogs,
from some nice white paper she held in her
hand. Her aunt cut out a great many pret-
ty things for her, and made some little boats
and cocked-up hats for Mary. After that,
Mary's father went into the library, and
her mother went into her own room. When
she went away, she said, " You must be
good children, and be very kind to each

58 LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY.

other. 1 hope I shall not hear my little
Mary cry again to-day."

Mary's mother had told her, a great many
times, never to put anything in her nose and
ears. But when little girls are fretful, they
feel very uneasy, and do not know what
to do with themselves. Mary rolled up
some of the paper, and stuffed it in her
ears. But when she had done it, she was
very much frightened ; for her mother had
often told her it might hurt her very much.
She ran to the foot of the stairs, and screamed
as loud as she could, u Mother ! mother ! I
have got a cocked-up hat in my ear !"

Her father and mother went to her very
quick. She called so loud, they were afraid
she was half killed. But when they heard
what she said, they laughed very much ;
and that made Mary cry louder. Her mo-
ther took the paper hat out of her ear, and
wiped away her tears. When Mary looked
round, she saw Charlotte sitting on her fa-
ther's lap. She puckered up her lip, and
looked at her mother with a very grieved
face. Her mother smiled, and shook her
finger at her ; so she did not cry again.
But her voice trembled very much, as she
said, " Mother, cousin Charlotte is sitting
on my father's lap."

LITTLE MARY IS CKOSS TO-DAY. 59

" That is because Charlotte is a good girl,
and does not cry," said her father ; "if my
little daughter will be good-natured, she
shall sit on my lap, too." Mary could not
bear that. She loved her father very dear-
ly; and when he was displeased with her,
it made her feel very unhappy. She laid
her head in her mother's lap, and sobbed.

" Mary is not well, I am sure," said her
mother. " I will ask Susan to take her up
to the nursery. She must be very ill, to
cry so much."

" Oh, don't send me to the nursery. I
am not ill, but I do want to cry," said
Mary.

She knew it was naughty to do so. In a
few minutes, she wiped her face quite dry,
and looked up very pleasantly. A gentle-
man came in, to talk with her father and
mother. He happened to look at one of
Mary's picture-books ; and her father asked
if he would like to take it home, and show
it to one of his little girls. He thanked him,
and put it in his pocket. Mary came very
near crying again ; but she remembered her
father had said she must not sit on his lap,
if she cried. So she crept up softly behind
his chair, and whispered, " Father, that is
my book." "I know it my dear: you

60 LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DaY.

shall have it again ;" said her father. He
smiled at her, and put his hand on her little
bright curls, and she felt very happy.

When she saw the gentleman go away,
with the picture-book in his pocket, she
tried very hard to keep from crying. She
shut her mouth tight, and winked her eyes,
and would not let the tears come. When
she looked up, she saw that her father was
very much pleased with her, for trying to
be a good girl. He took her in his lap, and
kissed her, and said, "Now Mary is a good
little daughter, because she did not cry,
wrhen she wanted to cry very much indeed."

Mary said, " I will try never to cry so
much again, dear father. My playthings
break, and you don't love me, and I feel
very bad myself, when I am cross."

She was a better little girl afterward. If
she began to cry, she stopped herself, and
-said, " I don't want mother to say again,
'little Mary is cross to-day.' "

LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB.

ucy was a very kind little
girl. She never struck the
kitten, and when she rode
out with her father, she
never wanted to whip the
horse. When she was eat-
ing her bread and milk, a
hungry fly would sometimes light on the
edge of the howl, and try to drink. Little
Lucy never knocked him with her spoon.
She would say to him,

'' Drink away, poor little fly,
You may drink, as well as I."

One day, when spring weather came, and
the sun was warm, and the grass green, a
butterfly flew into the window, and lighted
on a beautiful rose that was standing in the
sunshine. Lucy jumped up, and clapped
her hands, and said, "Oh, what a pretty.

62 LTTTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB.

pretty, pretty butterfly ! Mother, may 1
touch it?"

Her mother told her she could not touch
him, without hurting him. She took down
a large dead butterfly, that was pinned over
the looking-glass, and told Lucy to put her
finger on it. When she took her finger off,
it was all covered with fine meal from the
butterfly's wings. Her mother told her that
this meal was made of very small feathers,
like the down on a bird; but the feathers
were so very, very small, that rhey could
not be seen, without a magnifying glass.

" Can the butterflies see them?" asked
Lucy.

" I suppose they can," replied her mo-
ther ; " but I do not know. I never was a
butterfly ; and so I cannot tell how much
they can see with their little eyes."

" And when this meal comes off from their
pretty wings, does it hurt them?" asked
Lucy.

"I suppose it hurts them, as it hurts a
bird to pull out his feathers," said her mo-
ther ; " and besides that, they cannot fly as
well, when the down is taken from their
wings. It makes them lame."

"Then I will never touch a butterfly,"
said Lucy.

LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB. 63

Lucy's grandfather lived in New Jersey.
He was a good old Quaker gentleman, and
Lucy loved him very much. When the
snow-ball bush was in blossom, he came to
see her, and staid a whole week. Almost
every evening. Lucy took a walk with her
good grandfather, and she was a very hap-
py little girl. One evening, they met a man
who was driving some sheep and lambs. A
chaise- wheel had passed over one of the lit-
tle lambs, and hurt its leg so badly, that it
walked very lame indeed. Lucy begged to
carry the little lamb home, because it was
too lame to trot along after the mother.

"I will buy it for thee, my dear child,"
said the old gentleman. " Thou art as gen-
tle as a little lamb thyself. But I think the
little one will grieve for its mother ; so I will
buy the old sheep too."

He bought the sheep, and led her home
by a string. Little Lucy carried the lame
lamb in her arms. Her mother spread a
nice warm blanket in a basket, and Lucy
laid the lamb on it, and fed it with warm
milk, from her own little china bowl. In a
few weeks it was quite well.

One morning, the old gentleman called
Lucy to him, and kissed her, and told her
he must bid her farewell before she went to

64 LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB.

school, for he should be gone to New Jersey
before she came back. Lucy jumped up in
his lap, and hugged him, and kissed him,
and said, "Oh, do come again soon, grand-
father. I love dearly to have you come."

When she put on her cape-bonnet to go
to school, she staid round the good old grand-
father, and leaned on his knees, and looked
up in his face. u Poor Lucy," said her mo-
ther, "it comes very hard for her to part
with grandfather."

"I must walk to school with the little
darling myself," said the old man. And he
took her hand, and she went jumping along,
as happy as a kitten.

While Lucy was in school, her father
brought the chaise to the door, for the grand-
father to ride home. And up trotted the
old sheep and the little lamb, as if they had
come to say good-bye to their old friend.

" Look at the pretty creatures," said the
old gentleman. The father looked, and
smiled when he saw a small bell fastened
to a neat little collar round the lamb's neck.
On the bell was written "Little Lucy's
Lamb."

"Tell my little darling," said the grand-
father, " that I bought the bell for her, be-

LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB. 65

cause she is always so kind to every body
and every thing."

When Lucy came home, she was greatly
delighted with her lamb's collar and bell.
The little creature became very fond of her,
and used to follow her all round, like a dog.
When the lamb grew to be a sheep, she had
many a warm pair of stockings made of
her wool.

LITTLE FRANCIS.

nce there was a little boy-
named Francis. He was
a very lively child ; always
full of his talk. When he
Was two years old, his mo-
ther bought him a china
bowl, covered with pic-
tures. He thought the men and women on
it were alive. When he ate his bread and
milk, he would talk to them. They did
not answer him. But their mouths were
painted as if they were open ; so he began
to laugh, and offer them a spoonful of his
supper. " Take some — take some. Why
don't you eat it?"

When he saw that the figures on the bowl
did not move, he turned round and offered
the spoonful of milk to his mother. If his
mother drank it, and said she loved it, his
eyes would sparkle, and he would laugh for

LITTLE FRANCIS. 67

joy. He loved dearly to give away a part
of everything he had. If his mother gave
him an apple, he would always ask to have
it cut in five pieces, and give one to each of
his brothers. And when his mother filled his
bowl with milk, he would run about the
house as fast as his little feet could go, to
give all the children a drink.

Francis was very kind to animals, too.
A poor dog used to go by his father's house
sometimes. He did not have half enough
to eat, and he was so lean that he looked
like a mere skin full of bones. When Fran-
cis was very small, before he learned to
talk very well, his little heart was full of
pity for the poor starved animal. The first
time he saw him, he called out, " Mamma,
there's a poor dog that gets no dinner. He
looks like a good boy of a dog. Do give
him something to eat." His mother gave
him some pieces of meat, and it made him
very happy to go out and feed the hungry
dpg-

One day, the dog was going by, and they
could not find any bones or cold meat for
him. Francis was in great trouble. At
last, he ran and took the plate of bones away
from the cat. "She is a great fat puss,"
5

68 LITTLE FRANCIS.

said he : "she gets a dinner every day, and
the dog don't."

The beggar dog came to know his little
friend so well, that he never went by the
house without stopping to see him. If he
did not come out soon, he would scratch on
the gate, and bark.

One day, when Francis went to walk
with his father, they met a blind man, who
was led by a little white dog. The dog
could not speak to ask for money for his
poor master ; but he made a whining noise,
and scratched on the ground with his paws.

It pleased Francis to see the dog so good
to the poor old man. He stooped down,
and patted his head, and talked to him as if
he had been a child. He gave the blind
man all the coppers he had, and gave the
dog the roll of bread and butter he was eat-
ing. " Take it, good little puppy," said he :
"I wish I had another roll; you should
have it."

The dog ate the bread, and licked his lips
as if he thought it was good. Then he
came and rubbed his head against the little
boy, and looked up in his face, as if he
wanted to speak. This made the lively
little fellow laugh. " See, papa ! see pa-

LITTLE FRANCIS. 69

pa!" shouted he; " he is saying, Thank
you, Francis. Have you got another roll ?"

The blind man said he had another dog
at home, that he would sell very cheap.
The father told him to bring it to his house,
and if it pleased him, he would buy it. He
brought it the next day ; and Francis liked
it so well, that his father bought it, and
gave it to him. The cat did not like this
very well. She put up her back, and spit
at the dog ; and when she saw Francis take
him up in his arms, she walked out of the
house.

But the dog and cat soon came to be good
friends together. They ate their dinner out
of the same pan. When they had done,
they would lie down on the grass, and roll
about, and box one another's ears in play.
This was great sport for Francis. Some-
times, he would lie down on the grass with
them, and they would tumble over him,
and jump and frolic about every way. If
lie set a little ball rolling, they would both
scamper after it, and the dog would bring
it back in his mouth. He taught his dog to
stand on his hind legs and beg; and to carry
his basket in his mouth, when he went into
the garden to help his mother pick peas and
beans.

70 LITTLE FRANCIS.

But though Francis loved his dog so
much, he did not neglect his cat. As soon
as he was dressed in the morning, he would
seat himself in his little arm-chair, and ask
for his bowl of milk. Then he would call
" Puss, puss ! Bijou, Bijou !" and the cat
and dog would both come • running, and
stand one on each side, while he gave tHem
some of his breakfast. Sometimes he
would take the cat in his lap, and she would
lick his hand and purr. Then the happy
little fellow would laugh, and say, "Mam-
ma, hear puss talk, she is whispering to me :
and I guess she says, Good morning, Fran-
cis."

It was a pleasure to see this little boy's
face. His eyes were so clear, and bright,
and blue, and he always looked so happy.
He was always full of play, but he was
never rude or noisy. When the sun had
gone down behind the hills, and it was cool
enough to play out of doors, he loved dearly
to have his father run after him. He would
go round the house, as fast as his little feet
could fly. Sometimes, he would hit his toes
against a stone, and fall down on the grass.
But he did not mind that. He would jump
up and run again. When he got round the
corner, he would peep back, to see if father

LITTLE FRANCIS. 71

was near enough to catch him. It was a
pretty sight to see his eyes sparkling with
fun, and his gold-coloured hair blowing in
the wind. One day, when he came run-
ning round the corner very quick, the kitten
came running against him. She was fright-
ened, and put up her back, and hissed at
him. How Francis did laugh !

He loved to frolic out of doors, but he al-
ways came in as soon as his father and mo-
ther thought it was best. He would walk
right in, and seat himself in his little arm-
chair, and say, "Now will you tell me a
story?" If his father said yes, he would
climb into his lap, and lay his little curly
head on father's shoulder, and be as quiet
and happy as a little lamb lying on the
grass with the old sheep. He was so fond
of hearing stories, that he was not always
ready to go to bed, when the proper time
came. When he had his night-gown on, he
would want to kiss every body two or three
times over. And when his mother said,
" Come, Francis, it is time to go to bed, and
shut your little peepers," he would say,
"Please let me stay a minute. Papa can-
not do without his little boy." Sometimes,
he would say, " Puss wants me to stay a
little longer."

72 LITTLE FRANCIS.

One night, when his mother was ready to
lead him to bed, he said, " My foots are
cold. Let me sit down a minute, and warm
them in the moonshine." It made all his
brothers laugh to see him sit down on the
floor, where the moon shone brightly on his
little white toes. As he sat looking up at
the sky, he said, " The moon is a very bright
thing. Mother, what was the moon made
for?" His brother Henry said, "It was
made to warm your toes."

Little Francis did not smile, he sat look-
ing up at the window, winking his eyes
slowly, as if he were thinking of something.
At last, he said, " It looks very bright and
pleasant up there. If we are good, perhaps
father and mother, and little Francis and
Henry, and all of us, will go to heaven to-
gether. I should love to have hold of dear
mother's hand, when I go."

His mother stooped and kissed him, and
said, " Take mother's hand now, and go to
bed, like a good boy." He took her hand,
and she laid him on his pillow, and in a
few minutes he slept as sound as a mouse.

THE AUTUMN BIRD.

hen the summer is getting
old,
And nights and mornings growing cold,
Then comes and sits upon the spray
The friendly little chick-a-day.

She is a chubby little bird,

And all day long her song is heard,

Her friendly chick-a-day,

Chick-a-day, day, day.

She never minds a cloudy sky,
But ever singeth cheerily,

Her friendly chick-a-day,

Chick-a-day, day, day.

r4 THE AUTUMN BIRD,

When cold winter draweth near,
Dearly do I love to hear

Her friendly chick-a-day,
Chick-a-day, day, day.

Blessings on the happy bird,
With her pleasant little word,
Her friendly chick-a-day,
Chick-a-day, day, day.

HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE.

ittle George lived in Bos-
ton. He was very fond of
flowers. When the spring
time came, he always used
to say, " Oh, mother, how
I do wish we lived in the
country." Every morning
and evening, he went to walk on Boston
Common. If he happened to see a Dande-
lion, or a White Clover, he would break it
off, and exclaim, "Oh, mother, see what a
beautiful flower !"

People who live in cities have not much
ground to spare. George's father gave him
a small piece, about as big as an apron, and
he liked to be digging in it half his time.
At first, he put into the earth all flowers that
were given him, and then he was sorry be-
cause the hot sun made them wither. But
his mother bought him some Sweet Peas

7b HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE.

and some Lupine seed, and showed him
how to plant them. She told him they
would not come up for many days, and he
must wait patiently, and not touch them at
all. It is very foolish for little boys to fret,
because things do not grow as fast as they
want them to. Fretting never makes any
thing grow.

George was very good. Sometimes he
looked at his garden, but he never touched
it. One day, his mother told him she would
show him something as pretty as the pretti-
est flower. So little George put on his hat,
and ran off to walk with his mother, won-
dering what he was going to see. They
stopped at a house where he had never been
before. A gentleman who lived there show-
ed them a gold snuff-box, with a very beau-
tiful picture on the cover. While George
was looking at the picture, the gentleman
touched the box, and the cover opened. A
beautiful bird rose up from the box, and
shook himself, and turned his head round,
and began to sing. He was very small;
not bigger than a thimble. His feathers
were smooth and glossy, and the colours as
bright as a butterfly. His song was so clear
and sweet, that George thought it was a
real bird from the woods. But it was not

"HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 77

alive. It was a little machine, like a watch.
A watch moves its hands, and keeps mak-
ing a ticking noise, though it is not alive.
So this little bird moved and sung, though it
was only a machine.

George was not old enough to understand
how this was done. But he was delighted
with the beautiful bird, and wanted to look
at it all day. After the bird had sung his
songs three or four times over, the gentle-
man shut the box, and said he had not time
to show it any mof. George wished very
much to see it longer ; but he knew it was
not polite to tease. He thanked the gentle-
man for his kindness, and bade him good
bye.

The next morning, his father took him to
ride in the country. There he saw ever so
many flowers, and had plenty of sky-room
to fly his kite with his little cousins. One
day, he saw two pretty little squirrels seat-
ed on a bough, and never was any little boy
so glad. He wanted to catch the squirrels
and carry them home. But his father told
him they would not be happy shut up in a
box ; and if they ran about in the city streets,
they would get killed. Good little George
thought he had rather leave them to be hap
py in the fields.

78 HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE.

Afterward, George saw a white lieu, with
a whole brood of little chickens. She was
scratching very busily, to find food for her
little ones. One chicken was brown, and
all the rest were white. George thought
the brown one had been out in the sun too
much. He said, " See father; how that lit-
tle chicken is tanned !" His cousins laugh-
ed, and his father told him that the sun
tanned little girls and boys, but it did not
tan chickens. George saw a thousand plea-
sant things, and ran about, till he was tired.
When he went home to Boston, he wanted
to go to bed directly.

The next morning, he went to look at his
garden ; but he did not dig in it. He asked
his mother only once when she thought the
seed would come up. He built cob-houses,
and looked at his little picture-books all day,
without troubling his mother at all. He
watched his garden every day. He wished
the flowers would make haste and come up ;
but he never teased about it. In a fortnight,
he saw little green things above the ground,
and he ran into the house to tell of it. Every
body was glad to see him so pleased. They
all loved him ; he was such a good-natured
boy.

The next day, when George went to look

HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 79

at his Lupines, he found a pretty flower-pot
standing in the middle of his garden. In it
was a rose-bush, with three beautiful roses,
and three buds on it. Happy little George
clapped his hands, and shouted for joy. His
father heard him, and he opened the window
and said, "That rose-bush is for you, my
son ; because you have been such a good
boy, and have never teased about your gar-
den."

' ' Thank you, father, ' ' said George ; "now
I can carry a rose to school for little Mary."

The flowers grew finely in George's gar-
den. The bees came there to ask the flow-
ers for honey, and the butterflies came for a
breakfast. Almost every day George went
to school with his little hand full of blos-
soms. And when he met a little ragged
child, that had no garden, he was always
glad to give him a flower.

THE DONKEY.

hey say the donkey is a
very stupid eoiimal ; but
he is not stupid. Men beat
him, and kick him, and
keep him half starved ;
and that makes him not
care about any thing ; and
so he seems stupid. But he is bright enough,
when he is treated with gentleness and love.
It makes all creatures bright, and lively, and
happy, to be treated kindly. A donkey will
do any thing for those he loves ; but he does
not care to please those who beat him and
abuse him.

Thousands of miles from here, there is a
beautiful sunny country, called Spain. The
poor, hard-working people there are called
peasants. In that country, there are many
rocks and hills, and the donkey steps very
safe and sure-footed among the stony paths.

THE DONKEY. 81

In Spain, almost every body has a donkey.
Rich people have them for the ladies and
children to ride on, because they are so easi-
ly mounted, and step so softly and so gently.
Sometimes you will see a plump little don-
key, covered with handsome scarlet cloth,
and three little children riding on his back.
He will step round so carefully and softly,
that even the little baby is not afraid ; and
he will stop close to the high step, that the
little ones may get off his back safely, and
not fall and hurt themselves.

When the poor Spanish peasant has been
hard at work all day, and his donkey has
been hard at work too, they come home
very tired, and the poor jackass can hardly
carry the heavy panniers on his back. But
the children stand at the door, watching for
him ; and when they see the good creature
come slowly along the road, that winds
down from the hill, they throw up their
caps, and set up a merry shout. The don-
key hears them, and he pricks up his long
ears, and trots fast, in a hurry to meet them.
When he comes up to the cottage door, they
hug him round the neck, and pat him on
the side. They bring him some of the bread
they have for their own suppers, and i f they
can find a turnip, they run gladty to give it

82 THE DONKEY.

to him. He eats from their hands, and lays
his head on their shoulders, and tries, all he
can, to say, " I love you, dear children."

Oh no, the poor donkey is not stupid. It
is very pleasant to him to be loved, and he
gives back love to those who treat him well.

I will tell you what a Spanish donkey did
once. His master was a poor man that car-
ried milk to market. He did not ride into
the city in a cart, as our milk-men do.
The milk was put into bottles, and packed
close in panniers, that were thrown across
the donkey's back. The peasant walked
along beside the donkey and his load, and
thus they trudged to market together, every
day, for many years. The donkey knew
his master and mistress, just as well as they
knew each other. He would come joyfully
when they called his name, and feed from
their hands, and follow them all round, like
a dog. He loved them, and would do any
thing for them.

Now it chanced, one day, that the peasant
was very ill, and he could not leave his bed.
"What will my customers do for milk?"
said he; " they will expect me, and will
not know what is the reason I cannot come."
" I cannot go and leave you alone," said
his wife; "for we have no neighbours to

THE DONKEY. 83

call in, to take care of you ; and if I carried
the milk all round the city, I should be gone
many hours."

The donkey was eating some short grass
by the road side, and just as she spoke, he
brayed very loud. If you were to hear a
jackass bray, you would think it was a
very ugly sound, indeed; but the peasant
did not think it very ugly, because he loved
his donkey so much, and had lived with
him so long.

" The poor fellow is calling me," said he.
" He thinks it is time we were on our way
to market."

" He knows as well as we do," said his
wife. " I do believe he understands every
word we say to him."

" He knows all my customers in the city,
as well as I do," said the peasant. " I am
sure of that. Sometimes I think he could
go to market without me, as well as with
me."

"We will try him," said the wife. So
she called the donkey, and packed the milk
in the panniers on his back, and told him
to go to the city, and leave a bottle at every
house, and come back as soon as he could.

The good creature seemed to understand
what she said, though he could not speak to

y 6

84 THE DONKEY.

make any answer. He walked off with hia
load, and went to the city. When he came
to a house where they bought milk of his
master, he pulled the door-bell with his
mouth, and waited till somebody came out
and took the milk. He would look round
and watch till the bottle was taken out,
emptied, and put back again ; and then he
would walk off to another house, and ring
the bell. If it had been in New- York or
Boston, the donkey could not have reached
the door-bell ; but in Spanish cities, the bells
are not placed as they are on our doors. The
donkey could pull them very well, without
spilling his load of milk.

He had a happy time in the city; for
many people followed him to see him pull
the bell, and they gave him bread, and cake,
and turnips. When he had left all the bot-
tles, he turned round and walked home.
He felt very lonesome on the road, without
his old master. But the peasant crawled
to the door step, to watch for him; and
when he came trotting up with his empty
bottles, all safe and sound, it was a joyful
meeting. His old mistress patted him, and
called him kind names ; and he nestled his
head on her shoulder, and seemed to try to
say, * Am I not a good boy of a donkey?"

THE SAILOK'S DOG

fHE other day, I went to
walk with little Mai
The sun shone vei
brightly, and the streets
were clean. Maria said,
"You walk me too fast."
Then I walked slower.
But Maria did not come along with me.
She held back all the time. I looked round
to see what made her do so ; and I saw a
little dog : the funniest little dog you ever
looked at. He was not bigger than a kit-
ten, and he had silky white hair, that curl-
ed all over his body. He was a very pretty
little dog. His master thought he was a
pretty dog, and a good dog ; I know he did.
He had given him a little morocco collar,
all hung with silver buttons, that looked
like little bells.

Though he was such a very small dog,

86 THE SAILOR'S DOS.

dog, he seemed to think himself very big.
If he saw a great dog, as large as a calf, he
would run after him, and jump up in his
face, and bark at him. The great dogs
would stop and stare at him, as if they did
not know what such a little thing could
mean by being so saucy. When he had
done his noise, and gone off, they would
look back* as if they wanted to laugh at
him. But the sailor's dog seemed to think
he was as big as any body's dog. When
his master went by the corner of a street, he
would run at full speed, to see if there were
any horses there for him to bark at ; and
the sailor would have to whistle him back.
I never saw a dog act so wild and funny.
Maria took a great fancy to him. I could
not make her walk along, because she
laughed so much to see the sailor's dog.

The sailor saw that the little girl was
very much pleased; and he came to me,
and asked if I did not want to buy the dog
for that little lady. I asked him how much
money he would sell him for. " Poor Frisk,"
said he, " I would not sell him for fifty dol-
lars, if I could help it ; but I want money
very much, and I will sell him for five dol-
lars. He is as good-natured and playful
as a kitten, and will catch rats and mice, a3

THE SAILOR'S DOG. 87

well as a Maltese cat. I am going to sea
to-morrow ; and I should like very much to
leave my pretty Frisk in the care of this lit-
tle lady."

Maria looked up in my face very earnest-
ly, and I knew that she greatly wanted the
little dog for a play-fellow. So I bought
Frisk, and carried him home in my arms.
After we had given him something to eat,
and played with him a little, he seemed al-
most as much at home, as if he had always
lived at our house. Maria played with him till
she went to bed, and when she came down
in the morning, and found Frisk asleep on
the hearth-rug, you never saw any little
creature so glad as she was. The little dog
jumped up, when he heard her cry out for
joy ; and he capered about, as if he were
glad too.

From that day, Maria and Frisk were al-
ways together. When she walked, he ran
by her side. When she slept, he lay on the
foot of the bed, to keep her little feet warm.
If she was gone out of sight, a single min-
ute, Frisk would be so glad to see her when
she came back, that he would run round,
and shake his little silver buttons for joy.
There never was a dog that loved a little
girl so well as Frisk loved Maria.

88 the sailor's dog.

Thus they lived together five or six
months. When the sailor came home from
sea, he came one day to ask if he might see
Frisk. The little dog knew him, and jump-
upon his knee, and licked his hands.
This made the poor sailor cry. He said he
was very sorry that he had sold Frisk ; for
he had a little girl at home about six years
old, and when she heard the dog was sold,
it almost broke her heart.

• " I have promised my little Dolly that I
will try to buy Frisk back again," said the
sailor ; " for Dolly is a good girl, and she
is sickly now, and pines after the little dog
all the time. When she sees me, her first
question will be whether I have brought
Frisk back ; and it makes me feel very
bad to see my little Dolly cry."

Maria stood looking in the sailor's face
all the time. When he had done speaking,
she made up a very grieved lip, and came
and leaned in my lap, and whispered, " Is
that man going to take my Frisk away.?"
I told her she must tell the sailor whether
he might have the dog, or not ; but she
must remember that Dolly loved Frisk very
much ; and perhaps poor little sick Dolly
had nothing else to love or play with.

Maria listened to me when I said this ;

the sailor's dog. 89

and she stood still, and looked very serious.
At last, she said to the sailor, " Has Dolly
got a Canary bird?" " No, miss," said the
man. "Has she got a Maltese kitten?"
" No, Miss," said he.

Maria ran out of the room, as fast as her
small feet would carry her ; and a minute
after, she came back with her kitten in one
hand, and her bird cage in the other. " You
may give both these to Dolly," said she;
" and then perhaps she will be willing that
I should keep Frisk."

The sailor wanted to please the kind girl,
but he did not know what to do. I said to
Maria, "Dolly does not love the Canary
bird and the kitten, because she has never
lived with them. But she does love Frisk,
and she will cry if her father does not bring
him back ; for poor little Dolly is not well.
Maria is very good, to be willing to give her
bird and her kitten to the little sick child.
But she will be a still better girl, if she
sends Frisk; because she wants to keep
him. very much indeed."

Maria thought a little, and then she kiss-
el the dog, and put him in the sailor's arms,
tnd said, "You may carry him back to
i ttle Dolly, because little Dolly is sick."

The sailor almost cried. He kissed Ma-

90 THE SAILOR'S DOG.

ria, and thanked her, and called her a bless-
ed little girl, and promised to bring Frisk to
see her, whenever he could.

When he had gone, Maria sat down in a
corner and cried. But I took her out to
walk, and we went to the Museum, where
we saw many pretty things. She came
home very tired and sleepy. When I un-
dressed her, she said, "I am glad I sent
Frisk away. I suppose the sailor's little sick
girl is very happy with him : and I have
got a kitten, and a bird, and a rose-bush,
that I can water with my own little green
water-pot."

"Yes," said I; "and better still, you
have been a kind little girl, and made an-
other little girl happy."

FATHER IS COMING!

)

1| ark, hark ! " say the children,
"hark, hark !"
And out of doors they go ;
For they hear the dog begin to
bark,
And father comes, they know.

Jane, and Lucy, and Charley dear,

All love the noisy Tray ;
And quick they spring his bark to hear,

At close of summer's day.

For when Tray jumps the orchard wall,

Their hearts are full of bliss,
And forth they scamper, one and all,

To gain a father's kiss.

92

FATHER IS COMING.

And dearly father loves to take

His babies on his knee,
While one calls out for " patty cake,"

Another cries, "Take me!"

Jane runs to bring the milk and bread,

And Lucy takes his hat,
While Charley shakes his silky head,

And brings his pussy cat.

The happy boy, and Lucy too,

Will father's supper share ;
Then Jane unties each little shoe,

And mother combs their hair.

And this is why, at set of sun,

They every one will hark,
To see who first will call, "Run, run!

For Tray begins to bark !"

ANNA AND HER KITTEN.

ittle Anna had a pretty
grey kitten. She loved
the kitten very much, and
the kitten loved her. Some-
times, when Anna played
with her doll and her small
nine-pins, kitty would put
out her paw, and roll all the playthings
about the room. But Anna did not mind
that. She knew little pussy did it all for
play.

One day, when Anna was alone with
kitty in the parlour, she made some scratches
on the window; and that was a very naughty
trick. When her nurse came into the room,
she said, " Who made these scratches on the
window?" The little girl felt very much
ashamed of the mischief she had done ; and
she did not speak a word.

Kitty was rolled up in a heap, sleep ing

94 ANNA AND HER KITTEN.

in the rocking-chair. The nurse said, " Per-
haps this naughty puss did it, with her
sharp claws. I must box her ears, to teach
her not to scratch the window."

Little Anna began to cry. She ran up to
her nurse, saying, "Oh don't whip little
kitty. She didn't scratch the window. I
did it. I know it was a naughty trick, and
I will not do it again."

The nurse did not box kitty's ears. Anna
took poor little puss in her arms, and strok-
ed her soft fur, and made her so happy, that
she purred a song, as little Anna said.

Anna's father and mother, and her grand-
mother, and her nurse, all loved their little
girl very much: because she always told
the truth, and had such a kind heart.

THE HOUSE OF LITTLE TOM THUMB.

hen there are four or five lit-
tle children together, they
may have some fun. try-
ing to say the following
sentences, without leaving
out any thing. Each one
should say a sentence, and
then, when his turn comes round again, see
if he can "begin in the right place, and re-
member all he has to say : —

1. I sell you the house of little Tom
Thumb.

2. I sell you the little chair, that stands
in the house of little Tom Thumb.

3. I sell you the little cushion, that lies
on the little chair, that stands in the house
of little Tom Thumb.

4. I sell you the little hat, that little Tom

96 THE HOUSE OF LITTLE TOM THUMB.

Thumb wears on his little head, when he
sits on the little cushion, that lies on the lit-
tle chair, that stands in the house of little
Tom Thumb.

5. I sell you the little cane, that little
Tom Thumb holds in his little hand, when
he wears the little hat on ♦his little head,
and sits on the little cushion, that lies on
the little chair, that stands in the house of
little Tom Thumb.

6. I sell you the little ring, that little Tom
Thumb wears on his little finger, when he
holds the little cane in his little hand, and
wears the little hat on his little head, and
sits on the little cushion, that lies on the
little chair, that stands in the house of little
Tom Thumb.

7. I sell you the little watch that little
Tom Thumb carries in his little pocket,
when he wears the little ring on his little
finger, and holds the little cane in his little
hand, and wears the little hat on his little
head, and sits on the little cushion, that lies
on the little chair, that stands in the house
of little Tom Thumb.

8. I sell you the little key, that winds the
little watch, that little Tom Thumb carries
in his little pocket, when he wears the little

THE HOUSE OF LITTLE TOM THUMB. 97

ring on his little finger, and holds the little
cane in his little hand, and wears the little
hat on his little head, and sits on the little
cushion, that lies on the little chair, that
stands in the house of little Tom Thumb.

THE UNLUCKY DAT

ucia was a little blue-eyed
girl, with silky hair, as
light as flax. She was very
good-natured and talka-
tive. People loved to ask
her questions, to see what
she would say. This made
Lucia rather pert. She began to think she
was old enough to know what she ought to
do, and what she ought not to do, without
asking her mother. She thought every
body must be pleased with her stories ; and
she talked more than a little girl ought to
talk. Her friends were not pleased with
her. They often said to each other, " Lu-
cia does not behave as prettily as she used
to."

One day, Lucia said to her mother, " Ann
Pratt does just as she pleases in every thing.
Why don't you let me do so, too?"

THE UNLUCKY DAY. 99

" Because I do not think you would be
so happy, my dear," replied her mother.
" When I think you will be happier for
doing a thing, I allow you to do it."

" I should have been happier yesterday,
if you had given me some raisins when I
wanted them," said Lucia.

" You know very well that raisins make
you ill," answered her mother. ':If I had
given them to you, you would have been
better pleased for a few minutes ; but you
would have felt very uncomfortable for
hours."

Lucia sighed, and said, '--Oh dear, how
glad I should be, if I were my own mis-
tress."

'•You maybe, if you please," replied her
mother.

" For how long, mamma ?" asked the lit-
tle girl, with great eagerness.

When her mother told her she might do
just as she liked, for a *vhole week, she was
greatly delighted-,- She thought of fifty fine
things she would do. In the first place, she
would not go to school, or g^-t a single les-
son, the whole week. She would dress her
doll, and work in her garden, and colour
her maps. There never was a little girl had
naif so many plans as she had.

z 7

100 THE UNLUCKY DAY.

The first day of the week, j^he found two
little white chickens in her hen's nest. It
was warm weather, and Lucia thought the
little creatures could- not possibly be happy
among so many straws and feathers. She
brought them into the house, and put them
on a nice linen cloth in a basket. She fed
them with crumbs of bread, but they did
not seem to like it much. They were just
out of the shell, and did not know how to eat
big crumbs. When she was tired of look-
ing at them, and hearing them chirp, she
put the basket on the table, and went out.
The old hen was running about in great
distress, and the little chickens wanted their
mother. But Lucia did not think of this.

When she went into the garden, she found
her lupine seeds just peeping above the
ground. They grew so strangely, that she
thought they had come up bottom upwards.
She pulled them all up, and planted them
again, with their roots in the air. When
she had worked in* the sun, till she was
very warm and tired, she went to her doll-
house. The doll had on a very pretty pink
crape gown. Lucia forgot that she had
soiled her hands, by digging in the earth
of the garden. When she took hold of her

THE UNLUCKY DAY. 101

doll, every one of her fingers left a dirty
mark on the nice crape.

Though Lucia was very tired, she thought
she would run down stairs, and get some
water to wash the robe, before the spots
were dry. She saw a stone jar of water
behind the kitchen door, and she dipped up
a mug full. It was not rain water, as she
thought. There was ashes soaking in it.
The moment she put the gown into it, all
the colour went away, and it looked like a
dirty white rag. To make the matter
worse, the thoughtless child washed the
robe right over her doll's face ; and where-
ever she sprinkled it, all the colour was
taken out. The pretty cheeks were as spot-
ted, as if the doll had had the small-pox.
" Oh dear," thought Lucia, " what an un-
lucky day W She sat down and cried bit-
terly. She did not like to go to he^ mother,
to tell her troubles. She thought her mo-
ther would say that she would not have
been so mischievous and unhappy, if she
had learned her lesson, and gone to school.

She put her doll away, and thought she
would comfort herself by a look at her
chickens and lupines. The plants were all
withered. The gardener told her they were
quite dead, and that all the care in the world

102 THE UNLUCKY DAY.

V

would never bring them to life again. Lu-
cia said the lupines came up bottom up-
wards. The gardener laughed, and told
her that the flowers knew how to grow,
better than she could teach them.

Poor Lucia sighed deeply, and walked
into the house to see her chickens. The
wings were lying about the table. The cat
had eaten them. The little girl could not
bear that. She sat down and cried, as if her
heart would break. Her mother came in,
and asked what was the matter. (cOh
dear," sobbed Lucia, " that wicked cat has
eaten my two little white chickens."

" You should not have brought them into
the house," said her mother. " The old
hen knew what was good for her little ones,
much better than you do."

Lucia began to think that mothers always
knew what was best for their children ; but
she did not say so. She dried her eyes,
washed her face, and looked out of the win-
dow, till dinner was ready.

After dinner, she thought she would amuse
herself with painting her maps. She had a
box full of bright colours, which one of her
school-mates had given her. She daubed
Europe with blue, and Asia with orange
colour, and Africa with red, and America

THE UNLUCKY DAY. 103

with green and vermillion. She put the
paint on so thick and dry, that it was full
of stripes and spots. Not a word of the
printing could be seen. Lucia was out of
patience, and threw her maps into the desk.

Then she ran into the meadow to chase
butterflies. She forgot that her mother had
often told her not to go there alone. As she
was running very fast, she fell into a deep
ditch, and was buried up to her chin in
black mud. A man, who was at work in
the meadow, heard her scream, and ran to
take her out of the ditch. She lost one of
her shoes, and her gown was heavy with
dirt. So the man put her in his wheel-
barrow, and carried her home. When her
mother was sure that she was not hurt at
all, she could not help laughing, to see what
an odd figure she made. Her hair was all
tangled together with mud, and her arms
were as black as a chimney-sweep. It was
a great while before she looked like herself
again ; and when she was washed and
neatly dressed, she did not feel quite com-
fortable. She thought every body that look-
ed at her. wanted to laugh at her bad luck.

After a little while, she told her mother
she was going to take tea with Caroline Pratt.
Her mother advised her not ; because Caro-

104 THE UNLUCKY DAY.

line's mother did not like to have her receive
visits, except on Saturday, when she had
no lessons to learn. But Lucia wanted to
go very much, and she put on her bonnet,
and ran off.

Caroline was studying her lesson, and
her mother did not seem to like very well
to have her interrupted. " Lucia, how
comes it that you are not getting your les-
son for to-morrow ?" said she.

Lucia hung down her head, and said,
" I don't go to school this week. Mother
said I might do just as I liked iri every thing,
for one week."

" I think a wise little girl would rather
go to school, than remain idle at home,"
said the lady.

Lucia blushed, till her cheeks felt very
warm. She began to feel ashamed of being
an idle child. Caroline tried to amuse her
with her playthings ; but in about an hour,
her mother told Lucia she had better go
home, and leave her little daughter to study
her lesson.

So Lucia went away before sun-down.
When she got home, her mother said to her,
" You do not look happy, my daughter."

" No, I am not happy, dear mother," she
replied. " I have been very unlucky all

THE UNLUCKY DAY.

105

day. I believe it was because I have been
idle, and did not know what to do with
myself. Hens know what is best for their
little chickens, and mothers know what is
best for their little girls. I do not want to
be my own mistress any, longer."

THE hen a :■: r> her ducks

The first pond they came nigh,
The ducks waddled in,

While poor "biddy did cry,
And make a loud din.

fHE HEN AND HER DUCKS

here was a little hen,

Very; small and thick,
And this little hen
Never had a chick.

But in the straw, one day,
She began to scratch,

And four eggs she did lay,
Some young ones to hatch.

aa

The farmer heard her cluck,
And he thought it best,

To put the eggs of a duck
Into biddy's nest.

108 THE HEN AND HER DUCKS.

And soon the hen marched out,
With a pretty young brood,

But what she led about,
She never understood.

Proud was the little biddy,

When she called chuck, chuck,

She did not know, the niddy,
A chicken from a duck.

The first pond they came nigh,

The ducks waddled in,
While poor biddy did cry,

And make a loud din.

But the ducks did not know
What frightened their mother,

Or what made her scream so,
And make such a pother.

For they liked it right well,

To splash in the waters,
While the hen could not tell

What on earth ailed her daughters

THE HEN AND HER DUCKS. 109

So she spread out her wings,
And went screaming about,

Till the fat little things
Had all paddled out.

The poor hen did not know,

For nobody Ipught her,
That young ducks always go

Right into the water.

And she never understood

That farmers play tricks;
So she thought her little brood

Were all honest chicks.

And hard she did strive

To teach them aright,
F©u to see them all dive,

Gave her many a fright.

But the ducklings grew strong,
And she stopped her cries ;

For she thought she was wrong,
And the little ones wise.

110 THE HEN AND HER DUCES.

They grew up and went away,
And biddy lived alone,

Till she laid some eggs one day,
Under the barn-door stone.

She kept her eggs full warm,
And broodei them so well,

That by and bye a swarm
Of chickens broke the shell.

Proud was the hen, and fond,

But little she did know,
For down unto the pond,

She made the young ones go.

When she saw they would not dive,

She made a great ado,
For she thought she ougfato^ drive

Her little chickens through.

The poor little timid things,

They were afraid to go,
But she beat them with her wings ;

She thought she must do so.

THE HEN AND HER DUCKS.

Ill

They knew not what she meant;

She drove them round and round,
Till into the pond they went,

And there her chickens drowned.

Poor little biddy couldn't think
What made her first brood thrive,

And all the others sink,
Before they learned to dive.

It was a pity she didn't know
It could not bring good luck,

To train a little chicken up
As if it were a duck.

THE LITTLE GLUTTON.

ittle Laura is a glutton.
Do you know what that
means? A glutton is one
who eats more than he
needs, merely because he
likes the taste. Sometimes
Laura eats more than is
good for her. Then she has the head-ache,
and is very cross. If her brother comes and
pulls one of her curls, just for fun, she stamps
her foot, and says, u Get away, Tom." This
is because she has eaten too much, and
made her head ache ; for Laura is a good-
natured little girl, when she feels well.

I do not know what makes Laura so silly
as to eat more than she needs. Her kitten
never eats a mouthful more than she needs.
She leaves the dinner in her plate, and lies
down to sleep, when she has eaten enough.

THE LITTLE GLUTTON. 113

Her little Canary birds are not so silly as
Laura ; for if she were to fill their cage with
seed, they would only eat as much as they
need, and leave the rest till to-morrow. The
little busy bee is wiser than Laura. She
flies about among the flowers, and might
eat out of their hcney-cups all day, if she
chose ; but she only eats enough to keep her
alive and well, and carries the rest home to
her hive. The little squirrel is not so silly
as Laura. He eats half a dozen acorns,
and then frolics about. If he had a house
filled with acorns, he would never need to
have a doctor come to see him ; for he would
not eat one acorn more than he needed,
merely because it tasted good.

Laura will never feel as well as the squir-
rel, or have such nimble little feet, if she
eats more than she needs. Little children
that eat much cake, or pie, or candy, do not
have such rosy cheeks, or bright eyes, or
such sweet lips, or such happy tempers, as
those who eat but little. The kitten, and
the birds, and the bees, and the squirrels,
are good-natured, and industrious, and frol-
icsome, because they never eat many differ-
ent things, and only eat just enough.

I had rather be a squirrel, and live on
acorns in the woods, than to be a glutton.

114

THE LITTLE GLUTTON.

I had rather be a bee, and make honey for
good little boys and girls to eat, than to be a
glutton. I had rather be a bird, even if
they shut me up in a cage, than to be a glut-
ton. I had rather be a kitten than a glut-
ton ; even if the people cried " s'cat," when
I came in their way.

THE TWINS.

m

Mary Ann and Mary
Jane were twins. That
means that one of the
little girls was just as old
as the other. They both
had blue eyes, and light
brown hair. When one
had a new gown, or a new apron, the other
had one just like it. When they stood to-
gether, with their pink gowns and their
white aprons, it was very hard to tell which
was Mary Ann, and which was Mary Jane,
they looked so very much alike.

They lived in the country, and each of
them had a very small garden, which they
called their own. They had two little Mal-
tese kittens, one just as big as the other ;
but Mary Ann always knew her kitten, be-
cause it had a white speck on its nose. The
day they were four years old, their fatheT
8

116 THE TWINS.

gave them each a little white lamb, and a
little spotted calf. The lambs had small
bells on their necks, and when they came
running to meet the little girls, the bells
jingled and made pleasant music.

Mary Jane's uncle gave her a little shaggy
dog. He often made the little girls laugh
when he capered among the kittens and the
lambs. They named him Frolic, because
he was always so full of his fun. Mary
Ann had no dog ; but she did not cry about
that. The little sisters loved each other very
much, and never quarrelled about their
playthings. Sometimes, when little girls
came to see them, they would ask, " Mary
Ann, don't you wish you had a dog, too?"
But she always said, "No, I don't care
about it. Mary Jane lets me call him mine,
sometimes, and that does just as well."

One day, they heard their older brother
reading about Robinson Crusoe, and how
he taught his cats to dance. The little girls
thought this was very funny. "Oh, let us
try to teach our kittens to dance !" said
Mary Jane. Her sister thought it would be
very pretty play. So they went into the gar-
den, and called Tabby and Dinah. The
kittens came running along, purring and
rubbing their sides against the fence. But

THE TWINS. 117

they did not like to dance ; and when the
little girls tried to make them stand upon,
their hind legs, the kittens spit at them, and
tried very hard to pull away their paws.

The two lambs, named Snow-drop and
Snow-ball, came walking through the yard,
nibbling the sweet clover. The little girls
said, "Perhaps the lambs will dance better
than the kittens. Let us teach the lambs to
dance." But the lambs would not dance.
They just lifted up one foot, and stood stock
still. Dinah, the puss, curled herself up,
and laying her head on her paws, went to
sleep. Then Frolic came barking with all his
might, and Tabby was so frightened, that
she put up her back and spit at him. Snow-
drop went up to Tabby, and stamped her
little foot, and looked as if she wanted to
say, " Naughty Tabby! shame on you,
Tabby !" It made the girls laugh very much
to see a lamb stamp its foot. Mary Jane
said, u The dog and the kittens, and the
lambs all act so wild, that we shall never
teach them to dance."

Then the girls went into their own little
garden, to gather some flowers. They fast-
ened some of them in the collars of Snow-
ball and Snow-drop ; and the little white
lambs looked very pretty indeed, with their

118 THE TWINS.

posies round their necks. I do not know
what ailed Frolic. He seemed bent upon
doing some mischief. He came and stood
light before Snow-drop, and looked in her
face, and made such a loud bow-wow, that
the poor little lamb was frightened, and trot-
ted off as fast as she could run. Then he
took Tabby's ear in his mouth, and shook
it, till the kitten squalled out, and the ear
began to bleed. I do not think Frolic
meant to hurt poor kitty; but he was so
wild and full of his fun, that he did not
know what he was doing.

Mary Ann was very sorry for her poor
little kitten. She washed the ear, and
wiped it with a soft linen rag, and sat in her
little rocking-chair, and rocked the kitten
fast asleep. But she did not fret at her sis-
ter, because it was her dog that bit the kitten.
These good little sisters never fretted at
each other.

Mary Jane said she was so sorry, that
she would give Frolic away, where he
could never come near the kittens again.
But Mary Ann said she was sure Frolic did
not mean to hurt poor Tabby ; and she
should not like to have her sister give away
the little dog she loved so much. Mary
Jane was much more grieved than she would

THE TWINS. 119

have been to have had her own kitten hnrt.
She did not take any notice of Frolic for
several days. The little dog would lick her
hand, and jump upon her gown, and try
every way he could to tell her that he loved
her. And when he found she would not
take any notice of him, he would hang
down his head, and go away by himself,
and seem to be as much ashamed, as a
naughty little girl, when she knows that
her mother is not pleased with her. He
never bit Tabby again, and Tabby never
put up her back at him. They often had
great frolics together. The dog, and the
lambs, and the kittens, would all lie down
to sleep together, under the shade of the old
apple tree ; and sometimes the little spotted
calves would come and sleep there, too.

At last, Mary Ann's little lamb became
very ill. It would lie on the grass all day,
and not frisk about as it used to do. When
the little girls tried to feed it with good warm
milk and tender clover, it would not take
any thing from their hands. Its bright eyes
grew very dull, and in two or three days it
died. It would have grieved you to see
how the sisters cried, when they stood by
the dead lamb, with their arms round each
other's necks.

120 THE TWINS.

"Now you shall have Frolic for youT
own," said Mary Jane; "for you have no
dog, and your dear little Snow-drop is
dead."

Mary Ann wiped away her tears, and
kissed her sister. " You are very kind to
me, Mary Jane," said she; "if you give
Frolic to me, you may call him yours, just
as I used to call him mine, when he was
your dog."

When the twins went to sleep that night,
there were tears on their eye-] ashes, because
dear little Snow-drop was dead. But it
was a comfort to them to know that they
had always been kind to Snow-drop, and
had made her as happy as a lamb could be.

if

THE PARROT

In this little story, Mary and Ann, and their "brother
James, are talking together, and Poll Parrot keepa put-
ting in her word, and makes mischief.

1V1 com

There, is James

ng from school,

with his bag of books

slung over his shoulder. I

will run and tell him what

uncle Thomas has brought

home for us.

Ann. I know he will wish it had been a

monkey. He is always talking about

monkeys.

Mary. Monkeys are dirty, mischievous
creatures. I like pretty Poll as well again
as a monkey. James! James! make haste,
and come here. Uncle Thomas has brought
something for us.

122 THE PARROT.

James. Is it a monkey ?

Ann. There 0ow! Iknewhewoulda.sk
whether it was a monkey.

Mary. Oh/ brother, it is a great deal pret-
tier than a monkey. It is a beautiful par-
rot, all green and gold, except a little tip of
red on the tail. Come and. see.
[James follows his sister into the house.

She offers the Parrot a piece of apple.

Poll takes it in her claw, and eats it very

genteelly.]

Mary. Is she not a handsome creature,
James'/ Pretty Poll!

Parrot. Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !

Ann. How plain she speaks.

James. I should like a monkey better.
What a vain thing she is, to keep saying
Pretty Poll.

Parrot. Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !

[James laughs ; the parrot laughs like
him ; and that makes James angry.]

James. What do you mean by mocking
me?

Parrot. What do you mean by mocking
me? Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!

James. You saucy thing !

Parrot. You saucy thing !
[James takes up an apple core, and throw ft

it at her cage.] .

THE PARROT. 123

Ann. Now. James, don't oe angry with
pretty Poll ; though you are a little pepper-
box.

Parrot. Little pepper-box.

James. What made you say that word 1
That ugly parrot has learned it. You know
I hate to be called a pepper-box.

Parrot. Pepper-box.

James. Hold your tongue, Poll.
I Parrot laughs.]

Mary. Never mind, brother. Ann did
not mean to teach it to Poll ; and Poll will
soon forget it. Poll don't know the mean-
ing of what she says : so what's the use of
minding her?

James. That is true, Mary dear. You
are a kind little soul, and always try to
make peace. But I don't like Mrs. Poll
Parrot half as well as I should like a mon-
key ; for all her bright feathers.

Parrot. Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !

Ann. A monkey is so ugly looking, and
so full of mischief.

James. Some of the small ones have
glossy green coats, as handsome as Mrs.
Poll's ; and as for mischief, I guess you will
find pretty Poll mischievous enough. But
now I will tell you a secret, girls. You
know to-morrow is mother's birth-day. I
bb

124 THE PARROT.

have been saving all my money, on purpose
to buy a present for her. But don't you say
a word. I don't want mother to know any
thing about it, till she sees it on her table.

Mary and Ann. What is it ? What is it 1

James. A work-box.
[The girls jump and clap their hands.]
A work-box ! What a pretty present !

Parrot. A work box ! What a pretty
present !

James. I declare, Poll knows the secret ;
and now she will blab. But here, you may
just peep at the box.

He opens his bag, and the girls call out,
Oh how pretty !
[Their mother enters.]

Mother. What is so pretty ? What have
you there, my son 1

Parrot. A work-box! What a pretty
present !

James. There ! I knew the mischievous
thing would blab.
[He throws a stick at her cage.]

Parrot. Pepper-box.
[James tries to run out, and falls over a

footstool. The parrot laughs.]

Mother. What is the matter? Why is
James so vexed ?

THE* PARROT. 125

Parrot. Pepper-box.
[Mary goes out, and soon returns, leading

her brother by the hand.]

James. The fact is, dear mother, I bought
a present for your birth-day, and wanted to
keep it a secret till to-morrow. But that
ugly old parrot told it all.

Mary. She is not ugly, or old, James.

Parrot. Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !

Mother. It is a beautiful present, my
son ; and it makes me very happy that you
should be so thoughtful about my birth-day.

James. Dear mother, you always think
of something to make us happy. It would
be strange if we did not sometimes think of
you. I am sorry I was angry ; for I re-
solved, a good while ago, not to be a pep-
per-box any more. Oh, you saucy Poll !
[He laughs, and shakes his fist at the cage.]

Parrot. Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !

Mary. I am sorry you found out about
the present, sooner than James wanted you
to, mother. But the parrot was not to
blame. She does not know the meaning of
what she says.

James. That is true, dear sis ; and I did
wrong to call her a vain thing for saying
Prettv Poll.

126

THE PARROT.

Parrot. Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !
James. Oh yes, I dare say you will have
the last word.
Parrot. Oh yes. Oh yes. Pretty Poll !

V-

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

o whit! To whit! To wheel
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made ?

Not I, said the cow, Moo oo !
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away.
Not I, said the cow, Moo oo !
Such a thing I'd never do.

To whit, To whit, To whee !
Will you listen to mel
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?

*>

128 WHO STOLE THE BIRd's NEST?

Bob-a-link ! Bob-a-link !
Now what do you think ?
Who stole a nest away
From the plumb-tree to-day?

Not I, said the dog, Bow wow,
I wouldn't be so mean, I vow.
I gave hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I, said the dog, Bow wow !
I wouldn't be so mean, I vow.

To whit! To whit! To whee !
Will you listen to me ?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made ?

Bob-a-link ! Bob-a-link !
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plumb-tree to-day?

Coo coo ! Coo coo ! Coo coo !
Let me speak a word, too.
Who stole that pretty nest,
From little yellow breast?

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST? 129

Not I, said the sheep ; oh no,
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa baa ! said the sheep, oh no,
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

To whit! To whit! To whee !
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?

Bob-a-link ! Bob-a-link !
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plumb-tree to-day?

Coo coo ! Coo coo ! Coo coo !
Let me speak a word, too.
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow breast?

Caw ! Caw ! cried the crow,
I should like to know,
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day?

130 WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

Cluck, cluck, said the hen,
Don't ask me again.
Why I haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.

We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together.
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck, cluck, said the hen,
Don't ask me again.

Chirr-a-whirr ! Chirr-a-whirr !
We will make a great stir !
Let us find out his name,
And all cry for shame!

I would not rob a bird,
Said little Mary Green ;

I think I never heard
Of any thing so mean.

'Tis very cruel, too,
Said little Alice Neal;

I wonder if he knew

How sad the bird would feel

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST? 131

A little boy hun<r down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed;
For he stole that pretty nest,
From poor little yellow breast ;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.

THE LITTLE WHITE LAMB AND THE
LITTLE BLACK LAMB.

M'

■art Lee is a kind little
girl. She loves every-
thing, and when she
sees any creature hurt, it
makes her cry. When
Mary was a babe, just big
enough to sit on the floor
alone, her father bought her a lamb. At
first, she did not like the looks of the wool.
She was afraid to put her fingers on the
lamb's back. The little lamb said, " Baa !
Baa !" and Mary cried. She did not know
that was the way little lambs talk. But
very soon Mary loved the lamb.

When her brother C4ecrge ask ed her, ' c What
is little Mary?" she would say, " Ma-wee
is mother's pet lamb." And when he asked
her, "What is the little lamb?" she would
say, " The lamb is Ma-wee's friend."
Every night, the lamb stood beside her,

THE TWO LITTLE LAMBS. 133

when she ate her bread and milk ; and she
fed him with her little spoon. Sometimes,
when she drew her little cart about the room,
the lamb ran after her ; and oh, how Mary
would clap her hands and laugh. Nancy,
the nurse, would laugh, too ; for she loved
little Mary, and was pleased to see her
happy.

Every day, the little lamb grew bigger ;
and every day the little girl grew bigger.
One day, George led his little sister out to
the barn, and there she found two little baby
lambs. One of them was a black lamb, and
one was a white lamb.

Mary ran into the house and told her nurse,
Nancy, that her lamb had two baby lambs,
and one was black and the other white.
Nancy was a black woman. She had a lit-
tle boy named Thomas. George and Mary
were white children. Thomas was a black
child. Thomas loved George and Mary,
and George and Mary loved Thomas.

Nancy went out to the barn with the chil-
dren, to see the lambs. Little Mary saidx
V What makes one lamb white, and the other
lamb black?"

Nancy told her, :: God made the white
lambs, and the black lambs. God loves them
both, and made them to love each other."

134 THE TWO LITTLE LAMBS.

Then Mary said, c ' I am my mother' s white
lamb, and Thomas is Nancy's black lamb ;
and God loves us both."

When they all went into the house, Nancy
gave the children a cake and an orange; and
George and Mary said, " Give Thomas one,
too."

When Mary was sleepy, Nancy took her
in her arms, and rocked her, and sung pretty
songs to her.

The little girl said, "I love my father,
and my mother, and Nancy, and George and
Thomas. I love you dearly, Nancy. You
are always good to me. God loves George,
and Thomas, and me, when we are good
children. And God loves the little white
lamb and the little black lamb, when they
are good lambs. I suppose lambs are al-
ways good. But little children are naughty
sometimes. Henry Pratt struck good little
Thomas, and called him a nigger ; and that
made me cry. My little white lamb loves
the black lamb; but Henry Pratt struck
good little Thomas, and called him names.
That was very naughty."

Then the little chatter-box put her arms
round Nancy's neck, and went to sleep.
Nancy kissed Mary's cheek, and covered her
up all warm.

MAY DAY

L'

ouise was only five years
old ; but she was a good
scholar, and behaved
like a lady. She had al-
ways lived in the city;
and she did not know
much about sheep and
cows, and flowers, and green grass. She
knew the fragrant Geraniums by sight, for
she had seen them in her mother's window.
But she did not know how pretty the Vio-
lets are, when they first come out, and stay
close to the ground, for fear the cold winds
will blow them over. She had never seen the
Wild Lilac, hidden under the leaves of last
autumn ; or the beautiful blue flowers of the
Liverwort, smiling all alone among the dry
grass.

Louise wanted very much to see the
pretty wild flowers. Her mother told her

136 MAY PAY.

she might go into the country, to spend
May day with her aunt, if she would try
hard, for one week, to cure herself of a bad
habit. " What is my bad habit?" asked
Louise.

' ' You make good resolutions, and then
break them," replied her mother.

" Great folks talk about resolutions," said
Louise. " Little girls, like me, do not talk
about resolutions."

"Yes they do," said her mother : " My
little Louise told me yesterday morning,
that she would break herself of teasing;
that she would not ask me twice for any
thing, all day. I told her that was a very
good resolution, and I hoped she would keep
it. That same little girl, before it was
night, wanted to go to see her cousin Ann ;
and when I told her it was not proper, be-
cause it rained, she teased to go in the omni-
bus. That little girl broke her good resolu-
tion."

" I know who it was. It was I, mother.
I remember it very well."

" There was a little girl, too," continued
her mother, " who rose from the breakfast
table this morning, and said, ' To-day, I
will not say I can't. Whatever I am told
to do to-day, I will not say J can't.' A

MAY DAY. 137

spelling lesson was given her, and she for^
got her resolution, and said, 'I can't get
that, it is so long.' She was asked to hold
a skein of silk, and she said, ' I can't hold
it, because it makes my hands ache.' "

" That was I, too," said Louise. " I am
lorry I did not keep my word. I will try
very hard not to say ' I can't' again to-day."

"It is better to say, ' I will try,' than to
speak so very certainly, as you sometimes
do, my daughter. If you feel a little afraid
of breaking your promise, you wll be more
likely to keep it," replied her mother.

" I will try," said Louise.

A little while after, her mother told her
to ask the boy to bring some coal. Louise
began to say, "Mother, lea — ;" but she
stopped, and put her hand on her lips,
and laughed, as she said, " Only think,
mother ! I was going to say, ' I can't get
up, because my lap is full of patch-work ;'
but I can. I am glad I did not quite for-
get."

Louise did try very hard to keep her res-
olutions, during the whole week ; and her
mother told her she should go into the
country to spend May day.

" If I make a good resolution every week,
and try to keep it, I shall soon get to be a

138 MAY DAY.

very good girl ; shall I not, dear mother ?"
said Louise.

" I think yon will, my daughter," replied
her mother. "If I were yon, I would try
not to feel in too great a hurry about any-
thing, the first week in May ; and I would
resolve not to be fretful about' anything, all
the time I staid with my aunt."

" That is just what I was thinking," said
Louise ; " and I will try to do it."

Louise went into the country on Mon-
day, and Tuesday was May morning. The
children were all going into the fields early;
and when they knew a little girl from the
city wished to go with them, they said they
would call for her. Eighteen or twenty
children, with baskets in their hands, came
to the door at five o'clock in the morning.
Louise was not quite dressed, and she be-
gan to speak in a fret, to the woman who
was buttoning her clothes. But she re-
membered her good resolution, and said,
" Will you be so good as to fasten my
frock as quick as you can? The little girls
are waiting for me."

Her aunt had made a pretty little basket
of moss, and trimmed it with pink ribbon,
on purpose for her. It was not so cold as it
sometimes is on May day. It was warm,

MAY DAY.

139

and sunny. Louise soon filled her basket
with Violets, and Anemones, and Wild Lu-
pine leaves. They made a pretty wreath
of flowers and crowned one of the little girls
Queen of May. Then they all said they
would go down to the meadow, to get some
Cowslips. Louise did not know that mea-
dows were very soft and muddy. She step-
ped in so deep, that she soiled her stockings
badly, and came very near losing her bas-
ket. She felt a little impatient at first, but
she did not forget her good resolution.

Her aunt had written a verse neatly, on
a pretty bit of note paper, with a wreath of
flowers painted round it. She tied it with
rose-coloured ribbon, and put it in the moss
basket. Louise did not see it, till she be-
gan to arrange her flowers in bunches.
She was much pleased when she opened it,
and read,

The butterfly now spreads her wing,
The little birds begin to sing,
And children are as glad as they,
To welcome in delightful May.

After the happy little band had filled
their baskets with flowers, Louise tied her
poetry into the handle, and they all began
to move homeward. The little gi rls stopped

140 MAY DAY.

and left their baskets at the houses of friends^
as they went along. Louise saved hers for
her dear mother. She was looking at the
pretty loaded basket, thinking how much it
would delight her, when the handle broke,
and all the flowers fell into the dusty road.
When Louise saw the Cowslips she had
toiled after so much, all covered with dirt,
she came very near breaking her resolu-
tion; but she did not. She only said, "Oh
dear, I wish the handle had been sewed
better ; but I cannot help it now."

The children were all willing to give her
some of their flowers. They said they
liked that little girl, because she was so pa-
tient and good natured. The basket was
soon mended and filled again. When
Louise gave it to her mother, she said, " I
was very happy May -day. The bright
sun and the pretty flowers made me glad.
But the best of all was, though I broke my
basket, I did not once break mv resolution."

LITTLE JANE

ittle Jane was about four
years old. She was a very-
neat little girl, and she had
a kind heart. But little
Jane was apt to fret. . If
her brother George came
near her, and tickled her
ear with a feather, she would toss back her
curls, and hunch up her shoulders, and say,
" I do wish George would let me alone."

George loved his sister dearly ; but he
was a merry boy, and he liked to plague her
sometimes. One day, he had been playing
with some boys, and he felt very happy in-
deed. He came
and jumping, and began to sing,

into the house, laughing

" Little Jane

Went up the lane,
To hang her clothes a drying ;

She called to Nell,

To ring the bell,
For Jack and Gill were dying.

142 LITTLE JANE.

His sister was sitting on a cricket, sewing a
doll's gown. She gave her thread a twitch,
and said, " Mother, will you speak to our
George? He is always singing about little
Jane."

"What harm does it do, to sing about lit-
tle Jane?" asked her mother.

"I do not like to have him sing, little
Jane, little Jane, all the time. There, mo-
ther, he has begun again. Will you speak
to him ?"

Before there was time to speak to the
rogue, he ran out of doors, looking back all
the time, and singing, " Little Jane went up
the lane." Jane had half a mind to cry;
but she concluded she would not. She
knew George loved her, and only did such
things for play.

She put her doll in the cradle, and began
to sing lullaby. All at once she stopped,
and said, "Mother, I wish I was a butterfly."

" Why do you wish that, my little girl?"
said her mother.

"Because, if I was a butterfly, my bro-
ther George would not tickle my ears, and

-

" But then you would not have any bro-
ther George," said her mother; "and you
would be sorry for that."

LITTLE JANE. 143

cc Yes I should be sorry for that," said lit-
tle Jane. "I do love George, if he only
would not plague me so, and sing baby
songs to me. But if I was a butterfly, I
should ha\re pretty, bright wings ; I should
fly all over the fields ; and I should sleep
on the flowers."

Her mother smiled, and said, " Butter-
flies have no mothers to tuck up their beds
nicely, and kiss them, and bid them good
night."

Little Jane sighed. Ci I should not like to
be a butterfly," she said. She sat still a
minute, and then said, " But I should like
to be a mouse ; I am sure I should."

" Why should you like to be a mouse?"

" Because I should have such sleek, soft
fur, and such cunning little black eyes. I
should so love to do mischief in the pantry,
and then slip away into a hole, when I
heard somebody coming. It would not be
naughty for a mouse to do so, would it,
mother?"

" No, it would not be naughty for a mouse
to do so ; because a mouse does not know
any better," said her mother: "But don't
you like better to be a nice little girl, who
knows what is right, and who has a mother
to love her when she does right ?"

144 LITTLE JANE.

" Yes I do," said little Jane : " I suppose-
too, the cat would catch me. if I were a
mouse." She looked very sober, at thoughts
of being caught by the cat; but her face
brightened up, as she said, "Oh, I should
like to be a bird ! Then I should have
wings, and fly about after straws to make a
nest. Such a pretty, pretty nest, as I would
make ; so soft and warm. I should like to
sleep in a bird's nest."

" But perhaps the boys would steal your
nest," said her mother; "or perhaps the
gunners would shoot you, when you were
flying. Then you know you would have
no nice little chair to sit in, and no mother
to bring you your porringer of bread and
milk."

" I should be sorry for that," said little
Jane: " I should • not care much about the
bread and milk; for if I were a bird, I
could pick as many cherries off the trees,
as I wanted. But I should want somebody
to give me my breakfast : and I should like
to have a brother George to speak to, though
he does keep singing, little Jane, little Jane.
I was going to say I wished I was a kitten ;
but then I should grow a great cat. I be-
lieve, mother, I had rather be your little
Jane, than any thing else, after all ; for

LITTLE JANE.

145

father loves me, and you love me, and
:- "George loves me ; and if I grow such a wo-
man as you are. every body, will love me."
The little chatter-box did not talk any
more that time ; for she heard her brother
in the next room, and she went to play
Puss-in-the-corner with him.

MY SISTER MART.

A Talk "between an Uncle and his Niece.

UNCLE

HI ouise, Mary must live with me,
S% And I'll give you, for company,

A pretty bird with glossy wings,
That hops about and sweetly sings.
Her garden filled with lovely flowers,
Shall have two honey-suckle bowers,
And golden fish, in sparkling water,
If she will come and be my daughter.

LOUISA.

But she's my sister, uncle Carey ;
My own sweet loving sister Mary.
I cannot spare her for a day;
She helps me at my work and play.

>WEE7S FOR CHTLDI

Mv Sistca Mary,— rasjo 166.

MY SISTER MARY. 147

How I should cry if she were gone!
I could not dress my doll alone.
Therefore, dear uncle, I do pray
You will not make her go away.
Good cousin Jane may live with you;
She has no little sister Loo.
You may give her the bright Canary,
And let me keep dear sister Mary.
I'm very sure she will not go
From little Loo who loves her so

UNCLE.

Now blessings on your gentle heart!
I should be loth to see ye part.
You need not cling to her in fear;
You shall not lose your playmate, dear.
My words were merely meant to prove
How dearly you your sister love.
I will give her the bright Canary,
And she shall be your sister Mary

tld 10

OISCONTENTED DORA.

ora Manning was rich, and
her cousin Jane Loring was
poor. If Dora wanted any-
thing that could be bought
with money, her parents
could afford to buy it for
her. But little Dora was
not happy with her playthings, while her
cousin Jane was almost always happy. Do-
ra wanted every thing she saw, and was
never willing to make any thing for herself.
One day her mother bought her a beauti-
ful large French doll. Dora admired it
very much, and went directly to show it to
her cousin Jane.

" It is sweet and pretty," said Jane : " J

wonder whether I could make one like it."

Her mother told her she could not make

one as handsome; but with her help, she

thought she could make a very pretty one.

DISCONTENTED DORA. 149

She bought a head for her, and showed her
how to make the body, and stuff it. Then
she gave her some pretty pieces of calico
and silk, to dress it. For four or five days,
Jane employed all the time she was not at
school, in making and dressing her doll.
She was very happy ; for busy people are
always happy. When the doll was done,
it was really very pretty. It was not so
handsome as her cousin Dora's doll ; but
the dress was made so neatly, that every-
body liked it. It served to amuse Jane and
her little companions for months afterward.

Do you think Dora Manning had so much
pleasure with her beautiful new doll ? No
indeed ; she did not enjoy it half so much.
It was entirely dressed when her mother
bought it ; and after she had looked at it a
few times, she cared very little about it. It
was none of it the work of her own little mind
and fingers: and that was the reason she
soon grew tired of it.

Two days after it was bought, one of her
friends showed her a remarkably large doll,
that could open and shut its eyes, when a
string was pulled, to make them open and
shut. This made Dora unhappy. She did
not like her own beautiful doll, because she
had seen another doll, that had moving

150 DISCONTENTED DORA.

eyes. "I must have a doll that can open
and shut her eyes," said she. "I get cross
with my doll ; for when I sing lullaby, lul-
laby, there she lies in her cradle, with her
great bright eyes staring wide open all the
time. I must have a doll that can go tosleep."

Her mother bought a great doll with
moving eyes ; and, for a week or two, Dora
was satisfied. But at the end of that time,
she said she was tired of her doll, because
she would not open and shut her eyes her-
self. " I have to pull a string to make her
shut her eyes," said Dora; "and I don't
call that going to sleep at all. I am tired
of the stupid thing. Mother, will you buy
me a musical box, like that we saw at Mrs.
Gray's? You know a little bird came
jumping out of that, and opened and shut
his eyes, and sung, just as if he were alive.
There was no need to pull a string, to make
him open and shut his eyes. Mother, I
want such a bird as that."

■l That musical box cost several hundred
dollars, my dear," answered her mother.
M I cannot afford to indulge you in such an
expensive present. Besides, the bird's eyes
were opened and shut by little springs in-
side-of the box. He could not open his eyes
himself, any better than your doll can."

DISCONTENTED DORA. 151

"Well, it seems as if he did it himself;
and that is what I want," said the little
teaser. "I never want to see my stupid
doll again, with a string to pull her eyes
open."

' ' You are never contented with your
playthings, my dear Dora," said her mo-
ther; "I wish I could see you as happy as
your cousin Jane."

" Jane does not have half as many things
as I do, and they are never half as pretty,"
said Dora; " but she always seems to like
them. Mother, may I go to spend this after-
noon with Jane?"

Her mother said she might ; and Dora
went to tell her cousin how tired she was of
her new doll, that would not open and shut
her eyes without having a string pulled.

She found Jane very busy, pasting pic-
tures upon a small white box, which her
mother had given her. "Oh, that is a
sweet pretty box," exclaimed Dora; " 1 will
ask mother to buy me one just like it."

"Why not make one for yourself?" asked
Jane.

"Oh, mother can afford to buy me one;
and I do not want the trouble of making it,"
said Dora.

" But you will like it as well again, if

152 DISCONTENTED DORA.

you make it," said Jane. "You cannot
tell how pleasant it is to make your own
things. I like the things I make, as well
again as I like the things that are bought
for me."

"You always like your things," said
Dora, with a very sad voice. "I wonder
what is the reason I cannot take as much
comfort in mine."

"I will tell you, my dear," said her aunt
Loring. " You are not happy because you
are not busy. You buy every thing already
made, and then you have nothing to do but
to look at it. This soon gets tiresome ; and
it gives you no chance to improve yourself.
Put some of your own taste, and your own
industry into your things, and depend upon
it you will like them a great deal better. If
I were you, I would ask my mother not to
buy me any more playthings. I will teach
you to make many little things for yourself
and others ; and when you are busy, you will
be happy."

Dora said she would ; and two years after-
ward, she told her mother that now she was •
learning to help herself, and help other peo-
ple, she had found out how to be happy.
After that, she never wanted a thing merely
because she saw somebody else have it.

LITTLE EMMA

Little. Km ma lived in
New- York. She had
an uncle in the country,
who was a farmer. Em-
ma loved nothing better
than a run in the fields,
where in two minutes she
could fill her apron full of buttercups and
clover blossoms.

In the early spring time, she watched to see
when the grass on the Battery began to look
green ; and the very first Dandelion she saw,
she ran to her mother, and said, "The sun-
shine has come now, mother. When shall
we go into the country to see uncle?"

In August, she had her wish. As they
rode along, she saw the trees loaded with
fruit, and the gardens full of flowers. She
was so impatient to run in the fields, that
she could hardly be contented to sit still in

154 LITTLE EMMA.

the chaise. At last, they arrived at her
uncle's farm; and every body was glad tG
see little Emma and her mother.

The little city girl could hardly stop to
take her bonnet off, she was in such a hurry
to run to the barn, with her cousins, to see
the cows and the calves, and the sheep,
and the hens, and the chickens. The
white hen had a fine brood of chickens ; and
Emma clapped her hands when she saw them
running about to pick up seeds in the barn-
yard. Two of the chickens were hatched
from one egg. They had a wing on each
side, and were fastened together by one wing
between them. Her cousin George called
them his Siamese twins ; and said he meant
to send them to the Museum. But the chick-
ens were not so kind to each other, as the
Siamese twins were. One chicken wanted
to go one way, and the other chicken wan-
ted to go another way. The big one pulled
the little one very hard; and that made the
little one cry, "peep, peep."

Emma pitied these poor little chickens.

"If I was the big chicken," said she, "I
would be more kind to my little brother, and
not pull him about so. But I suppose he
don't know he hurts the little one."

When the sun was setting she had some

LITTLE EMMA. 155

good new milk to drink ; and tnen the chil-
dren went into the fields to gather flowers.

While they were in the fields, Emma saw
a little chipping squirrel run along the top
of the wail. She cried out joyfully, and ran
after him. She thought she could catch
him, and stroke his fur, and teach him to
live with her little kitten in New- York, and
eat milk from a saucer. But the squirrel hid
himself in his. hole, and Emma could not
find him. Her mother told her she was very
glad she could not catch the squirrel ; for if
she had taken hold of him, it would have
frightened him very much, and made his
little heart beat very fast. She told her the
squirrel would be very unhappy in a city ;
and unless he were shut up in a cage, he
would ran away. When Emma knew this,
she did not want the pretty squirrel any
more. She loved dearly to hear about his
snug house under the ground, and the nuts
he stored away in his little closet.

In the evening, Emma saw a great many
fire-flies in the meadows. She said to her
uncle, " See how the ground is covered with
pretty little stars ! Did the sky sprinkle
them down?"

Her uncle told her they were not stars,
but little insects that gave light from their

ee

156 , LITTLE EMMA.

wings. Then the little girl asked, "What
is their name, uncle?" He told her people
in the country called them lightning-bugs.

Emma had never seen any fire-flies before,
and she talked a great deal about them.
But when she tried to tell her mother all
about it, she forgot the name, and said,
"Oh mother, I have seen a great many
beautiful thunder-bugs !" This made them
all laugh ; and George called fire-flies thun-
der-bug, s for a long time after.

The next day, Emma went into the mea-
dow with her cousin George, to gather cran-
berries. "Where are all the fire-flies now?"
said she. "I don't know," said George.
"I suppose they have put their lamps out."
Emma had never seen cranberries growing
before. She called them little red apples,
and wanted to carry some home for her
doll.

When they went back to the house, the
children heard a great noise behind the
bam, and they ran to see what it was. A
cross dog was trying to bite a poor little
calf. But there was a great ox feeding in
the same pasture, and he ran to the calf and
stood by him ; and whichever way the dog
turned, the ox turned too, and pointed his j
horns at him. So the naughty dog was

LITTLE EMMA. 157

driven off, and the calf was not hurt much.
Emma called him a good ox, and wanted to
give him some of the cranberries from her
little basket. But George told her the ox
would not eat cranberries.

When Emma found her cousins were go-
ing to school, she wanted to go too. She
had never been to school; but her mother
had taught her to read and spell a little.
She went with her cousins, and sat very
still while the scholars said their lessons.
When the school mistress asked her to read,
she read as well as she could, and did not
make any trouble at all.

When she came home, her mother "asked
her what she did at school. Emma said,
" I sat as still as a mouse ; and I read
1 Chain up a child, and away she will go!'"
This made her uncle and all her cousins
laugh very much ; for Emma did not say
the verse right. She meant to say she had
read. "Train up a child in the way he
should go."

In the afternoon, her uncle went into the
orchard to gather apples to send into New-
York. Emma stood under the tree, holding
her apron for some, while George tried to
catch them in his hands, as they fell. A
pretty little lady-bug lighted on her apron,

158 LITTLE EMMA.

and that pleased Emma very much. It had
red wings, with little black spots. " Oh, look
here, George!" said Emma, " here is a
pretty little fly with a calico gown on."

Presently, she saw a great many ants,
crawling out of a hole in the ground near
her feet. Some of them were eating into
the apples that had fallen. " What are
these black things ?" said she; "Will they
sting me?" George told her they would
not sting her, and that they were called
ants. "Aunts!" said she: "Who are they
aunts to ? Your mother is my aunt ; but who
are these black things aunts to ? Are they
aunts to the lady-bugs?" George told her
that ant, an insect, was a different word
from aunt, a relation. But Emma did not
understand very well about it. When she
grows bigger, she will understand better.

When they came home through the fields,
after sunset, she heard a noise all the time.
"What is that?" said she. George told her
it was the crickets singing. Poor little Em-
ma was puzzled again. "Crickets!" said
she: "Why, I sit on a cricket." Her un-
cle smiled. " Little Emma finds many things
in the country that she does not understand,"
aid he. Then he told her that a cricket

LITTLE EMMA. 159

was a little thing with wings, that made a
noise at nightfall.

When they came to the house, Emma ran
and emptied her apron full of apples into
mother's lap. "What has my little girl
been doing all the afternoon?" said her
mother. " I have been helping uncle pick
apples," said she ; " and I have seen a sweet
pretty fly with a calico gown, that had a
great many black aunts. When we came
home, I heard some little birds singing their
prayers. The birds have a queer name,
mother. They call them crickets; and I
sit on a cricket."

Then they all had a laugh at Emma. Her
mother kissed her, and said, "My little
girl does not know much about country
things ; and she makes a great many mis-
takes. A cricket is not a bird, my dear.
It is an insect. If you were to see one, you
would call it a bug."

When it was time to go home, Emma
cried. But her mother told her how much
father wanted to kiss his good little girl ;
and how he would love to hear about the
things she had seen. Emma loved her
father, and she was willing to go home.

She told him all about the chickens, and
the ox, and the lady-bug, and the squirrel

160

LITTLE EMMA.

and the crickets. "I am glad I did not
catch the pretty little squirrel,'7 said she ;
"he would not love to live in New- York.
I suppose he was made on purpose to live
in the country. I wish I was a squirrel."

a I

,:>

^^i^y^L

THE YOUNG TRAVELLER.

ittle Fanny lived in the
country. She had one bro-
ther and two sisters. They
had never been in a city.
When Fanny was four or
five years old, her father
and mother promised to
take her to New- York. There never was
a little girl so glad as she was. From morn-
ing till night, she talked about her journey.
When she first awoke in the morning, she
would say to her sister, "Ah, Mary, I am
going to New-York." And when she laid
her head on the pillow, the last question al-
ways was, "Mother, when do you think we
shall go to New- York?"

The important day came at last. The
baskets and boxes, and little Fanny, were
all safely stowed in the steam-boat. Fanny
had never been in a steam-boat before. She

162 THE YOUNG TRAVELLER.

asked what made the trees and fields run
so ; and when she looked at an old cow on
the shore, she said, " What makes her go
away so fast ? She did not move her feet.'7

Her mother told her the boat was moving
away from the cow. Then little Fanny
looked at the water, and saw' that the boat
was moving through it. But she thought
there was soap in the water, because the
bright foam looked so white.

When they came to New- York, she was
afraid in the street, because there were so
many horses, and so many people. She met
a woman carrying a very small poodle dog
in her arms. His hair was white and soft
as silk, and fell all over his face in pretty
curls. Fanny stopped to look back at the
poodle, and a boy with a basket of matches
ran against her, and knocked her bonnet all
in a bunch.

"Mother, is this another steam-boat?"
asked Fanny. "No, this is a city," said
her mother : " Don't you see the houses V9
"Yes I see the houses," said Fanny; "but I
thought may be it was another kind of
steam-boat ; the folks rim over me so."

Fanny had great pleasure in looking at
the toy-shops. She saw many things that
she never saw before, and she wanted to

THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. J 63

buy them all. But after a few days, she
began to be very homesick. She wanted to
get back and see the children, and her little
red and white calf, and her Bantam chickens.
She wanted to be where she could run out
of doors, without getting lost. She was glad
enough when the day came to go home.

Her brother and sisters were waiting for
her with great impatience. When the wagon
came from the steam-boat they saw it a
great way off, and began to wave their
handkerchiefs for joy. They all crowded
round Fanny, and began to kiss her. " Oh,
I have had such a good time," said Fanny;
" and I have brought some things for you."
She was so impatient, that she broke the
string of her bonnet, trying to get it off.
Before her mother could unpin her shawl,
she seated herself on the floor, and began to
open the big basket. " Susan, here is a doll
for you," said she ; "and here is a little pail
for Mary, and here is a top for Willie. It
will spin, spin, spin, — oh, my heart, how it
will spin !"

" Spin what 1 Spin yarn for stockings?"
asked little Mary.

"No, no," said Willie, laughing: "it
will not spin yarn, it will spin round."

"And what is round?" asked little Marv.
11

164 THE YOUNG TRAVELLER.

"Oh you don't know anything. You
never went to New- York," said Fanny :
"Look at me. That is round." As she
spoke, she whirled round, till her gown
stood out, as stiff as a churn.

"That is going; that is .not spinning,"
said Mary.

"Well, they call it spinning; for they
said so in New- York," answered Fanny.

" They say so here, as well as in New-
York," said Willie : "I suppose they call it
so, because the top makes a noise like a
spinning wheel."

Fanny thought her brother did know
something, though he had never been in
New- York. She said no more about his top.

" Come, tell us what you have seen," said
Susan.

"Oh, Thaye seen such a many things,"'
said Fanny jU cannot remember to tell half of
them. tFsawv a' little boy riding in the pret-
tiest little "carriage you ever saw. He had
two ponies, no larger than uncle James's big
dog. They looked like baby horses. I saw
a great white image of a woman, that kept
pouring water, from a pitcher in her hand
all the time. They called it a fountain.
And I saw a little marble boy, that kept
throwing up water over his head, and laughed

THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. 165

when he saw it fall back again, wetting him
ail over. He was not alive. He was a
marble image. But he looked as if he were
laughing. And I saw so many, many dolls !"

" Should you like to live in New- York?"
asked Willie.

"No, I should not like to live there. I
couldn't run about; and the folks push me.
Come, let us go to the barn, and see how
bossy calf does."

They all ran out to the barn, and found
the calf eating his supper. Fanny patted
him on the head, but he did not take much
notice of her. li The foolish little thing,"
said Fanny: "he does not know I have
been to New- York. But here comes pussy
cat, and she is glad to see me."

Pussy rubbed her fur against Fanny's
gown, and purred. Then they ran into the
barn to hunt for eggs ; and the children all
went back to the house, with an egg in
each hand- Their mother told the little
ones it was time to eat their supper and go
to bed. For a long time after they went up
stairs, Fanny's tongue was running, as fast
as her brother's top could spin. Poor little
Mary could not keep awake to hear all her
stories; and the chatter-box, finding that
her sister was asleep, went to sleep herself.

166

THE YOUNG TEAYELLER.

Every day, she tells of some new wonder,
that she saw or heard while she was in the
city. If the children laugh at her stories,
she walks very tall, and says, "You never
saw such things; for you never went to
New-York."

GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS.

NEday, when Gertrude May
was walking with her mo-
ther, they met a boy who
had a bird to sell. It was
a little wild yellow bird ;
such as fly about in our
woods and fields. Ger-
trude's mother bought the bird, and her
little girl was much pleased.
When they brought him home, she talked

16S GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS.

to him by the hour together. He was so
tame, that he would hop out of the cage,
and sit on the rose-bushes and geraniums
that stood in the window. He would pick
up the crumbs from the breakfast table, and
peck at the lump of sugar that Gertrude
held in her hand.

Birds like a clean cage as well as little
girls like a clean gown. Gertrude learned
to brush out the cage very neatly, with a
little broom, that she called her bird-broom.
Every morning, she gave him fresh seed,
and filled his glass cup with fresh water.
Sometimes she would place a large basin of
water on the table near him. He liked to
dive into it, and bob his head in and out,
" and dash about, and splash about, and
shake his dripping wings." This was
good sport for Gertrude. She loved dearly
to see yellow-breast take a bath.

Her mother used to tell her that she must
be very sure not to forget the little bird for
a single day. "It is very cruel to let little
birds want seeds or water." said she : " it
is bad enough* to keep them shut up in a
cage."

"Is not yellow-breast happy in his cage ?"
asked Gertrude.

" Not as happy as he would be flying in

GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 169

the woods," said her mother. " He feels
just as you would if you were always shut
up in a small room, and never allowed to
go out."

" Then we ought to let him fly," said
kind-hearted little Gertrude.

"The ground is covered with snow, now,"
replied her mother. "His toes would be
cold on the ice, and he could not find any
berries or seeds on the frosty bushes. I
bought him of the boy, for fear he would
not take good care of poor little yellow-
breast through the cold winter. When the
warm spring comes, we will let him go out
amonsr the trees and flowers, where he can
find other little birds to play with."

" How long will it be before spring?"
asked Gertrude.

Her mother said it would be about eight
weeks. The little girl sighed. She wanted
little yellow-breast to be happy, but she did
not like to think about his going away.

When the snow was all gone, and green
leaves were on the bushes, Gertrude said,
one morning, " Mother dear, if you think
yellow-breast will be happier out in the
warm air, I am willing to let him go."

Her mother kissed her, and called her a
kind little girl. They took the cage from

170 GERTRUDE AND HER BIBDS.

the window, and went out into the garden
together. The good mother hung the cage
on the bough of a cherry tree, and opened
the door. Yellow-breast flew out, and
perched on the green bough, and warbled a
joyous song. He did not go out of the gar-
den, and Gertrude staid and. watched him a
long time. Some other little birds came to
see him, and they seemed to be talking to-
gether in the cherry tree. "I am glad he is
so happy," said good little Gertrude.

The next morning, she got up early, and
went into the garden. She called yellow-
breast, but he did not come. When she
went into the parlour, and looked at his
empty cage, she felt so sad, that she sat
down and cried.

Her mother came in and asked what was
the matter. ill do not want any break-
fast," said Gertrude; "for dear little yellow-
breast will not come any more to eat my
crumbs."

" My little Gertrude must not be selfish,"
said her mother. " It is selfish to think how
sad you will feel at breakfast time, instead
of thinking how happy little yellow-breast
will be, playing with other little birds in the
open air. It is a long time since he has had

GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 171

any little birds to play with, and he will en-
joy it very much."

Good little Gertrude dried her eyes, and
said, u I will try not to be selfish, dear
mother. I am glad yellow-breast is happy
with his little playmates."

She went and studied her lesson, like a
good girl.

The next morning, before she was up,
she heard some little birds singing sweetly
in the garden. ' \ One of them sounds just like
yellow-breast," said she. " I guess he has
brought a great many little birds, to thank us
for taking care of him through the cold
winter."

Gertrude had two uncles that were sea-
captains. When they knew how fond she
had been of little yellow-breast, they brought
home birds in their ships, from countries far
off, beyond the big sea. Her mother told
her it would not do to open the cage and let
these fly away ; for these birds were used
to living in very hot countries, and the
weather in our country would kill them.
So little Gertrude said she would make them
as happy as she could in a cage.

After little yellow breast was gone, her
first favourite was a beautiful green parrot,
with fiery red feathers at the tip of her

if

172 GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS.

wings. She was a very genteel parrot. She
would take an apple in her claw, and nibble
it as prettily as any lady in the land. She
was very neat in her habits, and would scold
violently if her cage were not cleaned early
in the morning. She came from the island
of Hayti. and had lived a long time with a
French family; of course, she talked French.
When any stranger came to the house, she
flapped her wings, rolled her eyes about,
perched up her head, and called out, " Jolie
Jannette! Void! Void! Jolie Jannette!"
In English, this means, " Pretty Jannette!
Look here ! Look here ! Pretty Jannette !"
It made Gertrude laugh to hear her parrot
talk French, and to see her so vain of her
bright feathers.

A few months after, the other uncle
brought her a parrot from the island of
Cuba. The people there speak Spanish;
so the parrot spoke Spanish, too. It was
not so handsome, so neat, or so good-natured,
as the French parrot. These two foolish
birds quarrelled whenever they saw each
other. When the French parrot strutted,
about, and called out, " 'Jolie Jannette I" the
Spanish parrot would scream " Tonto !
Tonto /" In English, this means " Fool!
Fool!" Then the French parrot would

GERTRUDE AND HER EIRDS. 173

scream u Mediant gar %on! pas propre!" In
English this means, "Naughty boy! Not
clean !»

Neither of them knew what the other
meant ; and each thought the other was a great
fool for using words that could not be under-
stood. It was very funny to hear them.
The moment one spoke in French, the other
would scold in Spanish ; and the French
parrot, without understanding a word the
other said, would scold in French, as loud
as she could scream. At last, they would both
get so angry, that it seemed as if they wduld
tear their cages in pieces.

Jannette used to sit upon a perch in the
cherry-tree, during the day time, fastened
by a long silver chain, to prevent her flying
away. The Spanish parrot, whose name
was Antoine, was likewise fastened by a
long slender chain, and his cage was placed
in another tree, with the door open. One
day, these quarrelsome birds were carelessly
placed too near each other. Jannette was
on her perch nibbling an apple, and Antoine
sat on the top of his cage, whistling a tune.
Jannette began the quarrej by calling out,
" Vilain Antoine ! pas propre! pas propre!"
This means " Ugly Antoine ! Not clean ! not
clean !" Antoine did not know what she

174 GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS,

said, but he thought it was something rude ;
so he screamed, " Calla, TontoV which
means, "Hold your tongue, you fool!"
They kept on screaming louder and louder,
calling each other all the names they could
think of. At last, they began to fight furi-
ously with their beaks and claws. A large
cat ran up the tree, seized Jannette by the
throat, and killed her. Antoine was hurt
very badly in the fight, and died a few days
after.

Gertrude cried heartily for her foolish
birds. But the next time her uncle came
home from sea, he brought her a very beau-
tiful parroquet, famous for his music. Ger-
trude soon learned to love this dear little
bird, more than she had ever loved her
parrots. It could whistle any tune it ever
heard twice ; and its voice was very soft
and sweet. It was as pleasant as a music-
box. Gertrude was never tired of hearing
it sing. But she did not enjoy it long. A
boy brought some wild berries into the
house, and nobody knew they were poison,
till the poor little parroquet ate some of
them and died.

Gertrude cried very much. She thought
she never would try to keep another bird.
She asked her father to bury her little fa-

•

SERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 175

vourite in the garden, and she planted a
Forget-me-not where his body was laid.

Some months after, her uncle brought
home a Java sparrow. This little bird was
so lady-like and slender, and had such very
delicate purple feathers, and picked the
sugar from Gertrude's hand so prettily, that
she soon learned to love it very much. She
had a large cage, hung in a sunny corner,
with a rich grape vine all round it. The
water in her little glass cup was changed
twice a day, and she had plenty of cake-
crumbs and dainty seed. She was as happy
as a bird could be, taken away from her lit-
tle playmates, and from the wide free air,
to be shut up in a cage.

But poor Gertrude did not have good
luck with her birds. One day she came
home from school, and found her darling
little sparrow dead in the cage. She never
knew what killed it. There was plenty of
clean water and good fresh seed in the cups ;
but there it lay on its back, quite stiff and
cold. Gertrude stroked its glossy feathers,
and kissed it, and cried as if her heart would
break. Her father had the pretty little crea-
ture stuffed, and put under a glass case. But,
for many weeks, Gertrude could not look
at it, without feeling the tears come in her

176

GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS.

eyes. She asked her mother to put the
empty bird-cage away, where she could
never see it again.

She begged her uncles never to bring her
another bird. " I had rather the little crea-
tures would stay in the warm countries
where they are born/'' said* she. "I am
afraid they are not happy in a cage. I am
sure they like better to fly about in the open
air, with their little playmates."

After that, Gertrude had a little baby bro-
ther, and she liked so well to play with him,
that she did not cry any more for her par ro-
quet and sparrow. "I love darling little
Frank better than a hundred birds," said
she ; " and I don't have to keep him shut
up in a cage. That is a good thing."

OUR PLAYTHINGS

< 4 usan has a waxen doll,

With little bright blue eyes,
And Mary has a pretty Poll,
That chatters, laughs, and cries.

Dear James has made a handsome ship,

With famous mast and sai!s,
And father bought for little Phip
A wooden cow and pails.

Louisa has a milk-white dove,

And little china boys;
But I have something that I love

Better than birds or toys.

178

OUR PLAYTHINGS.

It never speaks a single word,
Yet tells me many things,

About some darling little bird,
That makes its nest and sings;

About good little children 'too,

And little babies dear,
It tells me many stories' new,

And some are very queer.

Of all my things I like it best.

Peep in and take a look !
'Tis prettier than all the rest,

My little story book.

4%

#

MAKING SOMETHING

JAMES MERCHANT and John
s£& Carpenter were boys of the same
age. They were very near neigh-
bors ; and as soon as they could run
alone, they were in the habit of
talking to each other through peeping-
holes in the fence, that separated their
fathers' gardens. But though these chil-
dren grew up side by side, played togeth-
er, attended the same school, and read the
same books, their characters were very
unlike. Early education was one great
reason of this dissimilarity. One of the
first things James could remember, was
hearing his mother remark that her little-
Jimmy's cap cost more than any other cap
in the village. When he wore it. he would
strut along, and call out to his playmates,
n See my cap ! It cost a dollar and a
half. You haven't got such a

Si

10 MAKING SOMETHING.

of ye !" His mother would laugh, and
say, " Dear little soul ! How proud he is
of his pretty cap."

John's mother was a very different
woman. She made a cap for him, and
when she had done it, she quietly observed
to a neighbor, " It is quite a comfortable
little thing ; is it not 7 I made it from a
piece of my husband's coat. I was obliged
to contrive a little ; but I cut mv cap ac-
cording to my cloth."

When the boys were between six and
seven years old, James's father bought
him a small wooden horse, gaily painted,
and fastened on a platform with wheels.
James scarcely rolled it once across the
floor, before he ran into the next house,
■exclaiming, " See my horse ! It cost al-
most a dollar. Your father didn't buy
you such a one." John looked at it with
longing eyes ; but James would not allow
him to take hold of the string. " It is my
horse," said he : " You may look at it ;
but you mustn't touch it." Mrs. Carpen-
ter observed how busily her son examined
every part, and she thought he would soon
ask her for money to buy one. But he
did not. As he passed through the wood-
house, on his way home from school, that

MAKING SOMETHING. 11

afternoon.he spied a queer-looking summer-
squash, with a hard shell. He seized it,
and ran into the house, exclaiming eager-
ly, "Mother! Mother! may 1 have this ?"
"Yes, my son," she replied; "but what
on earth do you want to do with it?" He
placed it on the table, with a look of great
satisfaction, and said, " See there, mother !
If it only had legs, it would look very
much like a horse." He soon disappeared
with his treasure, and was seen no more
till he was called to supper. The next
morning, he exhibited the squash with four
sticks for feet, two bits of brown cloth for
ears, a tail made from the horse's mane,
and a saddle very neatly cut from an old
boot. It bore considerable resemblance to
a "horse, though it was certainly rather stiff
in the joints. How to put him in motion
was the question. John meditated a great
deal upon that point. Perhaps it was the
reason he could not make his sum prove,
the next day at school. On his way home,
he went into a turner's shop, and peeping
among the shavings, he found four round
pieces of wood. The turner said he might
have them ; and John, blushing and hesi-
tating, inquired whether it would be a great
deal of trouble for him to make a hole in

12 MAKING SOMETHING.

the middle of each piece. The man asked
what he wanted them for, and John told
the story of the horse. "If you have made
a horse of a squash," replied the turner,
laughing, "I should like to see it. If you
have done it well, I will make the platform
and wheels." John went -home on the
wings of the wind, and soon reappeared at
the shop with his squash. The men had
a great laugh at his workmanship. " I
declare, though, he is an ingenious little
fellow," said the turner ; and he good-
naturedly bored the wheels, and fastened
the legs upon a platform. A proud boy
was John, when he went home, trundling
his horse behind him. When he brought
his steed to the door, he called out,
" Whoo !" with a loud voice, and sum-
moned all the family to look. His mother
smiled, and said, " It is a very good horse,
my son ; but it seems to me the ears are
rather too small." " Why you see, moth-
er," he replied earnestly, " I had to do as
you did about my cap. I had to cut the
ears according to my cloth." His mother
patted his head affectionately, and said,
': You certainly have a great deal of con-
trivance, my son." His father looked
pleased, and said, " He has certainly done

MAKING SOMETHING. 13

it well, for such a little fellow. The saddle
is quite a pattern. I shouldn't wonder if
he made something, one of these days."
When John went to bed that night, he
asked, " What did father mean by saying
he shouldn't wonder if I made something
one of these days ?" " He meant that he
hoped you would be a capable man, quick
at contriving things," replied his mother.
" You have made a horse, you know ; and
that is making something."

James was visiting an aunt in the next
town, on the important day when the horse
came home from the turner's shop. As
soon as he returned, John was all eager-
ness to show it to him. But James looked
upon it very coldly. " My horse cost al-
most adollar," said he; '-and yours didn't
cost any thing. It isn't half so pretty as
mine." u I had real fun in making it,
though," replied John ; and away he ran,
with his horse rolling after him. A few
weeks after, the squash began to be a little
wrinkled. " Look at your old horse now,"
said James : " He is all drying up."
" And yours has got his head broken oif,
and lost two wheels," replied John. " I
don't care for that," said his comrade.
" Mother will buy me another." '•' More

14 MAKING SOMETHING.

squashes will grow next year," answered
John ; " and by that time, I shall be old
enough to make the wheels myself. It is
real fun to make things." He gave abun-
dant evidence that he liked such fun ; for
he was all the time busy. Before he was
ten years old. the playground behind the
barn was ornamented with all sorts of
martin-boxes and wind-mills, made by his
own busy fingers, with very slight assist-
ance from his father.

One day, James came to him in high
glee, to show a treasure he had obtained.
u See here !" he exclaimed. " Here are
four jack-knives and two pen-knives ; real
good ones. A man sold them all to me
for a dollar." " What are you going to
do with so many ?" inquired John. " I
am going to sell them," he replied. " At
a quarter of a dollar apiece, they will be
as cheap as saw-dust ; and I shall double
my money." " Perhaps the man stole
them ; else how could he sell them so
cheap ?" said John. " I don't know,"
answered the young trader : " All I know
is that I shall make money." ". Make
money," repeated John, slowly and thought-
fully. " To sell a thing for more than
you gave for it, does not make any thing-

MAKING SOMETHING. 15

Why do people call it making money ?"
James burst into a loud laugh. " In a
few weeks, I will sh©w you what I make,"
said he. " Oh I understand that very
well,5' replied John. " But I mean there
is not anything really made. There are
just as many things in the world as there
were before. I should like to see how
money itself is made. The cunning little
five-cent pieces, how pretty they must look
dropping out of the mint, all bright and
new !" " I should like to hold my hat
under and catch some," said James. " And
I should like to know how to make them,"
rejoined his companion.

When James went, a few days after, to
show his neighbor the money he had gain-
ed by trading in knives, he found him, as
usual, busy with his tools. " What are
you doing now ?" he asked. " I am go-
ing to teach Towser to churn," said John.
" While I am churning, he stretches him-
self out under the tree and goes to sleep.
I think he may as well do something for a
living. People talk about working like a
dog ; but it seems to me dogs do not work
at all." James stood watching him, as
the shavings rolled from under his swiftly
moving plane. " I declare," said he, " I

16 MAKING SOMETHING.

never saw such a fellow as you are. You
are always making something. For my
part, I like to make money, and I like to
play."

" So do I," replied John. " But this is
play. It's real fun to make things."

In a few days, James was -summoned to
see the dog churn, by treading continually
on an inclined plane, the motion of which
turned the crank of the churn. The hoys
laughed and hurraed ; but heavy old
Towser was far enough from being merry.
He looked extremely dignified and solemn,
stepping, stepping all the time, without
getting an inch a head. " I know what I
would do," said James. " I would take
Towser to the Museum, in the city, and
charge people sixpence for seeing him
churn." "Towser don't like the city,"
replied John. " Other dogs fight with
him. Besides, I should get dreadfully
tired, standing about, waiting. I should
want to be making something." " Yon
would be making money," answered
James. " I tell you that isn't making
any tiling," replied his comrade. " I want
to make a pail-tree for mother, and a wagon
for Ann Eames. Her baby brother is very
heavy, and her arms get tired lugging him

MAKING SOMETHING. 17

about." " What on earth is a pail-tree V
inquired James. " I mean a post with
branches like a tree, for mother to hang
her milk-pails on," answered the young
mechanic. James went off whistling, but
presently turned back and called out, " I
say, John, Don't you mean to make a
spinning-wheel for the cat, next V

Ann Eames and Susan Brown, two
school-mates of the boys, took great pleas-
ure in coining to see Towser churn, in the
shade of a fine old elm tree. They often
brought a piece of meat for him, knowing
that his young master always rewarded
him with a good meal when he had finish-
ed his task. But though Towser was fed
bountifully for his trouble, and though he
had by his new acquirements become a
dog of distinction in the neighborhood, he
evidently did not like the labor at all. As
soon as the churn was brought out under
the elm, his ears drooped, and he sneaked
along, looking out sideways from the cor-
ners of his eyes, as if he were contempla-
ting some means of escape. One day,
when the butter did not come as soon as
usual, he set up a most piteous howl, and
continued howling all the time, till they
2 in

18 MAKING SOMETHING.

untied the string and released him. The
next time the cream was brought up from
the cellar. Towser was stretched out by
the door, and the kitten was rolling over
among his feet, now and therwgiving him
a cuff on the ear, or a pat on the nose,
which was her mode of saying, " Here I
am, Towser !" He bore all her antics
with drowsy good-nature ; but the moment
he saw the churn uncovered, he sprang on
his paws with such haste, that he upset
poor puss ; and off he went, with long
steps, over ditch and wall, into the woods,
and was seen no more that day. The fam-
ily usually churned on Wednesday ; and
the next time the day came round, John's
father tied the dog to the elm tree very
early in the morning. He howled all the
time he was churning, and seemed to be
very much out of humour during the rest
of the day. The next week, he skulked
off into the woods on Tuesday evening,
and did not make his appearance again
til] the following night. For three weeks,
he regularly disappeared every Tuesday
evening. It was evident that the wise old
dog knew they churned on Wednesday.
Mr. Carpenter proposed to tie him, as early
as Tuesday noon ; but John said, " I had

MAKING SOMETHING. 19

rather you would not, if you please, father.
The more I think of it, the more it seems
to me that it would be right to do the:
churning myself. It must make poor
Towser very unhappy, or else he would
not run away as he does. I think myself
it must be tedious work for a poor beast to
keep walking, walking, and never getting
an inch ahead. Then you know he never
tastes the good sweet butter he makes. I
don't mind it that my arms are sometimes
tired when I churn ; for I have the satis-
faction of knowing that I am making but-
ter, and helping my mother. But poor
Towser gets tired without any satisfaction
at all ; for he don't know what he does it
all for."

" That's a good considerate boy," said
his mother. She placed her hand upon
his head, and smiled upon him, as she ad-
ded, " Always be kind and thoughtful
about the animals, my son. Never strike
them, and always remember that they need
their little enjoyments, and cannot speak
for themselves." The good father, too
placed a friendly hand on his shoulder,
and told him that he agreed with him per-
fectly. After that, the dog's unwillingness
to be a machine was respected by the whole

20 MAKING SOMETHING.

family ; but it was several weeks before
he ventured to stay at home on Wednes-
day. The first time he did so, he sneaked
round John, and looked up timidly in his
face, as if he was thinking to himself, " I
am afraid you think I am an ungrateful
dog, and that it is mean of me not to be
willing to help you." One day, when
James found his comrade churning, he in-
quired where was the dog ; and John re-
peated his reasons for being unwilling to
keep the poor beast at a task he so much
disliked. " You are a queer fellow," re-
plied James, bursting into a laugh. "How
hard you worked to make that churn-trot-
ter, and now you throw it aside, because
the dog does not fancy it."

"I had the pleasure of contriving it, and
making it," answered ^his friend ; " and
that was worth a good deal."

His mother, who was washing her
milk-pails, near by, added, "And you
learned a lesson in curing selfishness ; for
you liked better to do the churning your-
self, than to make the poor dog unhappy.
If Towser could reason about it, as well as
you can, I dare say he would wish to save
you work, and would come and offer to do
it." " I am not so sure about that,

MAKING SOMETHING. 21

mother," replied John. " People talk
about working like a dog, but none of the
dogs of my acquaintance seem to have the
least taste for working." " I said he
would be willing to work to help a friend,
if he could reason about it," rejoined she ;
"for Towser is certainly very affectionate,
and loves you very much."

Not long after, John went to visit his
mother's brother, who was a sea-captain.
He had a very delightful visit ; for his
uncle told him many stories of foreign
lands, and showed him a variety of carved
oars from the Sandwich Islands, and beau-
tiful ivory balls from China, and a com-
plete little ship, made by a Yankee sailor.

When he returned home, he was more
busy than ever. He was ambitious to
surprise his uncle with a ship of his own
making, finished even more neatly than
the one he had seen. During his visit to
the city, he had taken very particular no-
tice of the inward and outward construc-
tion of ships, and had inquired the reason
of every peculiarity in the different styles
of building. The industry and intelligence
with which he applied this newly-acquired
knowledge was remarkable. When James
met him dragging home a log of wood, al-

22 MAKING SOMETHING.

most too heavy for him to tug, he cried
out, " What now V u Going to make
something," replied John, smiling. " No
doubt of that," said James. " You are al-
ways making something. But what gim-
crack are you going to make, now?" " A
ship for my uncle," replied John. " This
log is for the hull." James rattled the
marbles in his pockets, and walked off,
whistling Yankee Doodle. While the ship
was in progress, he often came and stood
by, playing with Towser, and inquiring
the city prices of knives, fish-hooks, &c.

One day, instead of finding John at his
carpenter's bench, he met him going into
the woods, with a basket full of twigs
packed in wet mosses.

u What have you there T' inquired
James. " Scions for grafting," answered
John. " When I was with my uncle, I
met an old Norwegian sea-captain, who
told me a great many stories about Nor-
way. He said the first thing the boys
wanted to possess was a priming-knife ;
and they all learned to graft when they
were quite small. If they tasted any un-
commonly good apples or pears, they found
out on what tree they grew, and when
grafting time came round, they begged

MAKING SOMETHING. 23

some scions, and went off into the Avoods
to graft the trees. He said, it was mighty
pleasant, when travelling through the for-
est, to come unexpectedly upon these rich
boughs of pears and apples. I have been
thinking it would be very pleasant in this
country too. If these grafts do well, per-
haps, a few years hence, workmen going
through the Avoods, tired and thirsty, will
find boughs of juicy apples hanging right
over their path. They will not know that
John Carpenter put them there. But no
matter ; they will have the comfort of eat-
ing them."

" And what will you make by your
trouble ?" asked his companion.

" Make !" exclaimed John. CJ Why, I
told you I should make apples."

" But what good will that do you ?"
inquired James. " What good ? Why the
good of doing it, to be sure," replied John.

" You are a strange fellow," said James.
" I never heard any body talk as you do."

And off he ran to catch another boy,
who wanted to trade with him for some
fish-hooks.

He often thought John was foolish to
spend so much time and labor upon his
ship ; but when it was painted and com-

24 MAKING SOMETHING.

pietely rigged, he acknowledged it was
well worth all the trouble. It was in fact
very beautiful in its proportions, and fin-
ished with extreme neatness. If it had
been big enough to launch, it would have
gone through the waters as swiftly and
gracefully as a swallow floats on the air.

" Hurra !" shouted James, " That is a-
bout the handsomest thing I ever saw. If
I were you, I would exhibit it in the city.
The boys would give a hat-full of coppers
to see it." " I should rather not stand
lounging about all day," replied John. " I
had rather be grafting trees, or finishing
my bee-hives." "O yes," said James,
laughing ; "of course, making money
isn't making any thing."

When the time arrived for the lads to
choose employments for life, their fathers
inquired what they would like to do. John
seemed to have as much mechanical tal-
ent for one thing as for another ; but the
visit to his uncle, the sea-captain, and the
great number of Voyages and Travels he
had since read, determined his choice in
favor of making ships. The highest am-
bition of James was to tend a store in the
city, and become a rich merchant. His
mother was pleased with this preference.

MAKING SOMETHING. 25

11 I never wanted a child of mine to be a
mechanic," said she. " Some boys seem
to be born with vulgar tastes ; but I al-
ways thought my James had naturally a
genteel turn." John heard the remark,
but he was so busy making a bow and
arrow for Ann Eames, that he did not pay
much attention to it. If he had known
that she meant to insinuate he had a vul-
gar taste, it would not have troubled him.
He would merely have thought to himself,
" She is very much mistaken in supposing
it is vulgar to make things."

After the lads left their native village,
to pursue their respective employments,
they met but seldom. When James Mer-
chant was twenty years old, he was one
day going on board a ship about to be
launched, when he encountered the com-
panion of his childhood. They greeted
each other cordially ; but James glanced
at his friend's apron, and his paper work-
ing-cap, with a feeling of superiority. He
could not help saying, " I wonder such a
smart handsome fellow as you are, John,
can be contented to be a mechanic. It is
considered vulgar, you know."

" I do not ask what it is considered, but
what it is" replied John. " To live in

hh

26

MAKING SOMETHING.

this world without adding any thing to its
conveniences or ornaments, seems to me
disrepectable. If mechanical employment
is considered vulgar, the wisest thing I can
do is to dignify it by my own character and
pursuits.''

"But how can you dignify jt by your own
pursuits, when you are all the time wield-
ing the axe or the saw ?" inquired James.

" I do not spend all my time thus,"
rejoined the sensible young man. " I
rest myself by studying mathematics,
learning to play on the flute, and attend-
ing lectures on Natural Philosophy. I
save a small portion of my wages every
month to purchase books. By and bye, if
I can afford the time and money, I will
study French ; because I think it will en-
large the bounds of my knowledge, and
may prove useful to me in business. But
I will always keep to my tools a large
proportion of the time ; for that is the tal-
ent nature gave me, and I think now, just
as I did when we were boys, that it is real
fun to make things."

The next Thanksgiving evening, the
young men met again at a ball in their
native village. James waited upon Susan
Brown, and John went with Ann Eames.

MAKING SOMETHING. 27

Some people remarked that they wondered
Ann did not set her cap for the young
merchant ; but the simple good girl never
thought of such a thing as setting her cap
for any body. She and John had fed the
same dog, and petted the same kitten, and
attended the same reading school, and the
same singing school, and the same dancing
school. She had loved him ever since she
could remember, and John had loved her.
If the son of the French king had come to
court her, she would have told him, in all
simplicity, that she could not love him so
well as she did John Carpenter. James
had always seemed to like the company of
Susan Brown very much, and it was con-
sidered a settled thing that each of the
young men would marry his favorite school
mate. But when they met again, after an
interval of five years, the following con-
versation took place between them : " 1
have a store of my own now," said James.
" And I am master workman," said John.

" I am making money fast," said James.

" And I am making ships," replied John.

"I am engaged to a rich heiress," contin-
ued James. " Her father has lent me a
handsome capital to start in business. I
shall make money by marrying."

28 MAKING SOMETHING.

"I am engaged to AmiEames," said John.
"You know when I was a boy you never
could convince me that making money
was making any thing. Sure I am it is
not making love ; and I don't see how a
home can be happy without love."

It so happened that the friends did not
see each other again for twelve years, and
then they met far from their native land.

Mr. Merchant was sent as commercial
agent to Turkey. As he sailed along that
bend of the Bosphorus called The Golden
Horn, and gazed with delight on the beau-
tiful amphitheatre of hills, adorned with
blooming gardens, and pure white mina-
rets, tipped with gilded crescents, the cap-
tain pointed out a noble vessel lying on the
stocks, and said, " That is an American
vessel. It was built for the Turkish Sul-
tan by a Yankee named John Carpenter ;
and proud enough the Sultan is of her."

When they entered Constantinople, a
long procession was passing through the
streets, to the sound of gongs and cymbals,
tamborines and bells. The flowing Asi-
atic robes, with bright rainbow colors, the
gay turbans, belts flashing with jewels,
and horses in glittering harness, made a
splendid show. In the centre rode the

• MAKING SOMETHING . 29

Sultan,. distinguished by the superior ele-
gance of his embroidered robes, and by
the magnificent diamonds, which fastened
the feather of his turban. Behind him
were led two beautiful Arabian horses,
richly caparisoned, intended as a present
to the American mechanic. They were on
their Avay to witness the launching of the
new vessel, called Queen of the Bosphorus.

Mr. Merchant turned to follow the
crowd. He had scarcely come within sight
of the ship, when he was recognised by
the companion of his boyhood. A nod and
a smile was all he could find time to give
at the moment, for he was obliged to at-
tend to the reception of the Sultan and his
train on board the vessel. It was on all
hands agreed to be the best constructed
and most superb ship that ever rode the
waves of The Golden Horn.

When it was loosed from the fastenings,
and slid majestically' into the waters, all
the ships in the harbor run up their flags.
and fired salutes ; and from the receding
shores of Constantinople was heard the
uproar of many voices, mingled with gongs
and cymbals. From the mast-head float-
ed the American flag, in honor of the Yan-
kee mechanic, and all the American sail-

30 MAKING SOMETHING.

ors in port waved their hats and .hurraed
as it passed.

Mr. Merchant, who, amid the hurry and
confusion, had been eagerly beckoned on
board by his friend, took the earliest op-
portunity to congratulate him. " This is
a proud ?uoment for you, Mr. Carpenter,"
said he; 'but I cannot help smiling to think
that he e too, I find you at your old busi-
ness, naking something. I am glad to
hear that you are likewise making money,
which you used to despise so much."

" Oh no, I never despised wealth," re-
plied his friend ; " but I like to have it
come to me as the natural consequence of
making something, which adds to the stock
of useful or beautiful things in this world."

" And that is the very mode in which it
is coming to you," rejoined Mr. Merchant.
" I am told the Sultan makes great offers,
if you will consent to live in Turkey. I
rejoice in your good Fortune, but am sorry
we shall have to lose you."

" I shall not remain here longer than two
or three years, at farthest," replied Mr. Car-
penter. " Ann is lonely away from kin-
dred and friends, my children could not
have opportunities for education here,
and my good father and mother have need

MAKING SOMETHING. 31

of our presence. All the money I coulrl
send would not make up for my absence.
Moreover, I have many plans for the ben-
efit of our native village. I have never
considered money worth the sacrifice of
usefulness, or happiness ; for the simple
reason that use and enjoyment are all it is
good for."

" I likewise mean to retire from busi-
ness, and take my comfort, when I have
made a certain sum," rejoined Mr.Merchant.

" Take care you do not waste the
whole of life getting ready to live," replied
his friend, smiling. "As for leaving busi-
ness, I never %itend to do it ; for I know
very well that it is impossible to take
comfort without constant employment."

Mr. Merchant said no more on the sub-
ject ; but speaking afterward to the cap-
tain, with whom he sailed, he remarked.
" Mr. Carpenter informs me he shall not
stay in Turkey long, notwithstanding the
generous offers made him by the Sultan.
He always had peculiar notions. When
he was a boy, he could never be made to
understand that making money was ma-
king any thing ; and he seems to be of
the same opinion still."

" If I were to judge from the rich men

32 MAKING SOMETHING.

of my acquaintance,*' replied the captain,
" I should be inclined to think he was not
far from the right conclusion."

When Mr. Merchant was about sixty-
years old he retired from business, ' to take
comfort,' as he said. He purchased land
in his native village, and built an elegant
country-seat, to reside in during the sum-
mer months. His mother, now eighty
years old, talked in the same way she
used to do when he was a boy. She boast-
ed to every body that her son had the
handsomest house in the village, and was
the only man who kept a carriage. "It
was true," she said, " that Mr. Carpenter
had two beautiful horses given him by the
Sultan of Turkey ; but he was a man that
never made a show with any thing. He
and his son rode about on horseback, or
with a light travelling wagon, no more
stylish than half a dozen others in the
neighborhood."

Mrs. Merchant was too fashionable to visit
quiet Mrs. Carpenter ; but her husband oc-
casionally called to see his old friend, who
had long since taken up his residence in

MAKING SOMETHING. 33

their native village. He was struck with
the extreme simplicity and substantial com-
fort that pervaded the establishment. In the
kitchen was every possible mechanical con-
trivance to diminish labor. In the cham-
bers were arrangements for hot baths and
cold baths. The orchard was loaded with
fruit, the garden was blooming with flow-
ers.

There were a great variety of vines,
trained jnst enough to produce beautiful
effects, without disturbing the careless
grace of nature. In pleasant shady places
were little rustic seats, made of the boughs
of trees ; and from a hollow log in the
wall flowed a small stream, which moist-
ened a rich bank of mosses and water-
plants.

The old gentleman was in his carpen-
ter's shop when his friend arrived, and
was so busy, he did not see him.

" At your old business, making some-
thing, eh?" said Mr.Merchant, striking him
playfully on the shoulder. " I did not
know what to do with myself, this long
day, and so I have come to ask how you
are getting on."

"I am very glad to see you," replied
III 3 ii

34 MAKING SOMETHING.

Mr. Carpenter, cordially shaking his hand.
u My plane made such a noise, that I did
not hear you come in."

': I was used to that, in old times," said
his friend. " As I came through the gar-
den, and saw all manner of little fountains
and garden chairs I said to .myself, These
are all John's work, and I dare say I shall
find him making something."

"Yes, they are my work," replied the
cheerful old man. " I enjoy myself very
much making these pretty arrangements
for myself and neighbors. My wife has
a great fancy for cypress vines, and my
son has drawn an extremely pretty pattern
of a Gothic arch surmounted by a cross,
for her to arrange her vines upon. I am
trying to make the frame in a way that
will please them."

" I should suppose a man of your pro-
perty would hire a mechanic to do it,"
said his visiter.

"I am a mechanic myself,'' answered
he, with a good-humored smile ; " and
the older I grow, the more I am convin-
ced that the pleasure of life is not in hav-
ing things, but in doing things. But walk
in and see my family. Ann will be ex-
tremely glad to see her old school-mate '

~*!&J? '•■'.

MAKING SOMETHING. 35

You will stay and dine with us, will you
not 1 We are going to have that real old-
fashioned Yankee dinner, baked beans and
an Ijidian pudding. I remember you used
to be extravagantly fond of them, when
we were boys."

"Ah, those were happy days," said Mr.
Merchant, in a sad tone. "Every thing
tasted good then. But now I have the
dyspepsia to a dreadful degree, and am
obliged to be extremely careful what I
eat."

As they passed the dairy windows, they
saw Mrs. Carpenter busily moulding the
butter she had just churned. " There is
my old school-mate!" exclaimed Mr. Mer-
chant. " But, bless me, how young and
fresh she looks !" She nodded cheerfully,
as they passed, and came out to welcome
the vister, without stopping to change her
dairy apron.

" You are like your husband, I see ; you
like to be making something," said he.

" Yes," she replied, " it is an amusement
to superintend my own dairy. It is a bles-
sing that we are not obliged to work too
hard, in our old age ; but we continue to
occupy ourselves, from a sincere love of
employment. When I have spent an hour

36 MAKING SOMETHING.

or two in my dairy, or tired myself a lit-
tle, gathering seeds, or transplanting roots
in my garden, it seems to add to the plea-
sure I take in copying my son's architec-
tural designs, or sketching with him some
pretty little point in the landscape. You
know I always had a turn for drawing.
When my son showed a decided talent for
it, I thought it would be a benefit to us
both, if I took lessons with him. He gen-
erally insists that my sketches are the best;
for, like most young men, he thinks his
mother does every thing better than other
people ; from making pies to making land-
scapes."

" And I dare say he is in the right," re-
joined Mr. Merchant. " I remember, when
you were a girl, you always had a remark-
ably clever way of doing every thing you
undertook. But pray tell me how you
manage to live all the year round in the
country ? My wife complains that it is
very dull to stay here three months in the
year. I should think1 you would get. sound
asleep."

" We do get sound asleep," replied Mr.
Carpenter ; " and that we think a great
blessing, considering we are particularly
wide awake when we are awake. We

MAKING SOMETHING. 37

have too much to do to find the days tedi-
ous. Perhaps you recollect that tract of
land, which they called The Pine Barrens?
I purchased it all,at a low price. There is
enough for five small farms. I have cau-
sed soil from the river to be piled upon it,
and have taken various means to enrich
it. I have built five small houses, and let
them to poor industrious men. They pay
interest for what I have expended on the
portion they cultivate. The moment it a-
mounts to what I have paid, they own the
land and buildings, provided they have in
the meanwhile been steady and industri-
ous, have tasted no intoxicating liquors,
and regularly sent their children to school."

" In other words, you give them the use
of your capital," said Mr.Merchant. " But
what good does that do you ? You make
no money by it."

" But I follow my old plan of making
something" replied Mr. Carpenter, with
a smile. " In the first place, I have made
for my native town five good farms, instead
of barren plains. In the next place, I have
improved the condition of five families,
and made them happy in the conscious-
ness that they are daily earning a home of
their own. This puts heart into their work,

33 MAKING SOMETHING.

and makes the labor light. Even little
boys, of five or six years old, are busy
picking stones out of the ground, and pil-
ing them in a line ready to make walls.
I give'every one of them a small wheel-
barrow, as soon as he has made five heaps
as high as himself. This clears the ground
at a rapid rate. Do you remember the old
Norwegian, who fired my youthful zeal to
graft the forest trees 1 He used to say that
boys were full of mischief, because nature
had made them active, and men had given
them nothing better to do. He insisted,
that if they had variety enough in their
employment, work would answer just as
well as play, and they would really like
it better than mischief and destruction."

u That was certainly the case with your-
self," said Mr. Merchant. " It would be
difficult to hire a boy to work as diligently
as you did, for nothing but the pleasure
of it. By the way, some of those trees
are thriving still. I saw some of the boughs
full of apple-blossoms, as I rode through
the woods."

" Yes, my friends at the Plains gather
the fruit, and bring me a barrel full of it
every year," rejoined Mr. Carpenter. —
" They are as desirous to help me as I am

MAKING SOMETHING. 39

to help them ; and there is no happiness in
the world equal to such a state of feeling.
I have given a library to the young peo-
ple, and add a new book every month.
Every boy who can show something he
has made during the month, has the free
use of the library. One brings a basket,
another brings spools and rolling pins. A
poor little fellow, who cannot move with-
out crutches, sends caps and mittens of his
own knitting. For him I have made a ve-
locipede, and no duke was ever prouder of
his carriage. To every family, who for
five years have never used a whip on their
farm, I give a good cow. To every man,
who has not killed a bird during the same
time, I give four volumes of Natural His-
tory, with good engravings. My wife an-
nually gives a new calico gown to every
girl, who keeps a neat flower-garden ; and
to every boy, who has not disturbed a bird's
nest, or tormented any animal, during the
year, she gives the picture of a bird, paint-
ed by herself, and handsomely framed.
To attend to all this, in addition to our
own business, gives us plenty of occupa-
tion all the year round. It keeps us wide
awake when we are awake ; and, as I tell

40 MAKING SOMETHING.

you, when sleeping time comes, we sleep
soundly."

" I wish I could say as much," replied
Mr. Merchant, mournfully. "It is very
tedious to lie awake counting the strokes
of the clock, hour after hour. But one
thing is pretty certain, Mr. Carpenter ; you
will never grow rich, at the rate you are
going on."

" Are we not rich in the love of these
poor friends V inquired Mr. Carpenter. —
" Are we not rich in health and cheerful-
ness ? Ask your own experience, whether
the mere possession of money is real
wealth."

" There is no use in arguing the point,"
rejoined Mr. Merchant. " All the talking
in the world would never persuade you
that making money is making any thing.
You have strange ways of your own. But
some how or other, while I listen to you,
I feel twenty years younger. I shall have
a hundred things done on my place, which
I never thought of before."

"If you would only do a hundred things,
instead of having them done," replied Mr.
Carpenter, " you might even now find out
the truth of my boyish assertion, that it is
real fun to make things."

MAKING SOMETHING. 41

Mr. Merchant lived in his new country-
house only three seasons. His own health
was very poor, and his spirits depressed.
His wife found the country very dull, and
complained of being more and more ner-
vous and dejected. The doctor advised
her to work in the garden. She walked
languidly up and down the graveled paths,
with gloves and a sun-shade. If a flower
needed to be tied up, she sent a servant to
call the gardener ; if seed needed to be gath-
ered, the gardener must be summoned to
do it. She told the doctor that gardening
did her no good. Her only son had no taste
for books ; but she insisted that he should
go to college, because it was considered
genteel. Not being employed in a manner
suited to his taste and his faculties, he ex-
pended his energies in mischief, and was
expelled from college. This made his pa-
rents more nervous and unhappy than ev-
er ; and the doctor advised them to go to
Europe.

When Mr. Merchant went to bid fare-
well to the companion of his early days,
he found him occupied with a large kalei-

42 MAKING SOMETHING.

doscope, raised to a level with his eye, and
made to turn on a swivel, so that one could
look into it without fatigue. Bright me-
tallic ores, of various colors, lay behind it,
in a focus of light, and the rays conveyed
by a reflector, formed the most gorgeous
images within the kaleidoscope.

" You are not yet tired of making some-
thing,'7 said Mr. Merchant, smiling.

"No indeed," replied the cheerful old
man. " The difficulty is, I cannot find
time to make half the things I contrive in
my head. Look into this toy of mine. Is
it not a beautiful sight ?"

" It is beautiful indeed !" exclaimed his
visiter. " I should not have imagined that
any thing so splendid could have been
made with such a common plaything."

He walked back and forth, thoughtful-
ly, then stopped abruptly, and said, " Do
you know I am more and more convinced
that you are right? Making money is not
making any thing."

" Try a new system, my friend," repli-
ed Mr. Carpenter, soothingly. :' Prune
your own trees, plant your own flowers,
try experiments with your own hands,
watch the results with your own eyes. In-
stead of priding yourself on fruit that no

MAKING SOMETHING. 43

one else can have, give grafts to all the
neighborhood. Instead of valuing a flow-
er according to its cost, value it according
to its beauty, or its fragrance, and offer
seed to every one who will rear it. The
whole country will thus become a garden,
and your eye will be refreshed wherever
you go. The longer I have lived, the
more I have been convinced that the plea-
sure is in doing, not in possessing, and
that the happiness we give is the only real
happiness we take."

11 It is too late," replied the rich man
with a sigh. " The proverb says, ' It is
hard to teach an old dog new tricks.'
Even you could not make Towser churn,
you know. I have come to bid you fare-
well, my good friend. God bles^ you.
When I come back from Europe, r shall
doubtless find you making something."

But he never returned to his native
land. His friend survived him many
years, and remained active and cheerful
to the last. At seventy-eight years of age,
he was found, apparently in a sweet sleep,
in one of the arbors of his garden. By his
side was a rocking-horse, which he had
just finished for the deaf and dumb child
of a poor neighbor. His spectacles were

44

MAKING SOMETHING.

in one hand, and in the other a strip of
leather, which he had cut for a bridle.
The good old man died, as he had lived,
making something.

45

THE TULIP AND THE TRI-COLORED
VIOLET.

delight,

HERE is a sweet little
flower, which blossoms
in the gardens of many
countries, and is known
by many names. In En-
glish, it is called Tricol-
ored Violet, Heart' s-ease,
Forget-me-not, Ladies'-
Johnny-jump-up, and Jump-up-
and-kiss-me. The Irish call it Two-faces-
under-a-hood. The French call * it La
Pensee-vivace, which means the Lively-
thought, and La Fleur-de-Napoleon, or
Napoleon's-Flower. Nearly all its names
indicate what a bright little favorite it is.
It was Bonaparte's pet flower; and during
his reign, the French ladies used to wear
beautiful imitations of it on all their gar-
lands and dresses, to please the emperor.

The modest blossom never thought or
cared for such distinction. It thrives and

46 THE TULIP AND VIOLET.

looks cheerful, wherever you plant it ;
whether in sand, or clay, or loam. Rich
or poor, it is always happy, and does the
best it can to make the world look bright.
It seems in a hurry to bring us pleasure ;
for it shows its lively little face as soon as
ever the snow melts from the garden walks.
Blessings on the darling ! I love it in my
heart !

One of these dear little blossoms once
came out in a pleasant country garden.
There it played Hide-and-go-Seek with
snow and sunbeams, weeks before the oth-
er flowers ventured to creep out of their
winter nests. Presently the Crocus came
along ; then the Daffodil ; then the Crown
Imperial ; then the Tulips, in their gay
robes ; and amid their brilliant colors, the
modest little Violet passed almost unno-
ticed.

At last, a great red Tulip, gaudily strea-
ked with yellow, spoke thus proudly to hei
unpretending neighbor : " You little in-
significant thing, I wonder what you mean
by standing at my side all the time. From
day to day, I have expected to see you re-
turn into the ground, to enrich the soil fo*
your superiors. But every morning, if I
happen to cast my eye to the earth, there

THE TULIP AND VIOLET. 4/

I see you looking up in my face, as bright
and pert, as if you thought yourself as
handsome as any body."

" I am not thinking whether I am beau-
tiful or not," replied the happy little flow-
er ; " but I grow as well as I can, and 3
love to grow. I am not looking up at you,
thinking myself as well dressed as you
are. I look ever at the sunny sky, and
hold up my lips to catch the dew. I am
sorry it troubles you to see me always here;
for it gives me joy to throw my little flow-
ers in. Flora's path all the year round, be-
cause I love to make the gardens and the
wayside beautiful. You are very hand-
some, Miss Tulip, and I rejoice in your
splendor, without wishing it my own. You
have your advantages, and I have mine.
I cannot be seen afar off*, as you can ; but
if I cannot do as much as more brilliant
flowers, I will gladly do all I can. I shall
never, like you, be valued in Dutch markets
at my weight in gold ; but I can do some-
thing that I like better. I can make all
the little children love me, and clap their
hands when I first peep at them. With
them the early comers are favorites ; and
I %have courage enough to pop my head
out into the cold air, while you are snug

4S THE TULIP AND VIOLET.

asleep under your coverlet. Then I am
their constant friend all the year round.

" I kiss the icy hand of old Winter, and
nod at him a cheerful good-bye. I laugh
at the feet of Spring, and take all her ca-
price kindly, whether she pelts me with
hail-stones, or washes me with gentle show-
ers. I am not very strong under the hot
sunbeams, but I return the glance of Sum-
mer with the best smile I can ; and I throw
a garland before the very last footsteps of
departing Autumn. You glitter in the
train of Flora for one brief month, and
then not a leaf is left above ground, to tell
that you ever tossed your handsome head
so proudly at poor little me. Tell me
truly, which do you think is most desira-
ble, to be the sparkling beauty of a day,
or the quiet little friend, who cheers all
seasons, and all weathers with her honest
sunny face V3

The Tulip hung her head, and made no
answer. But if she were wise, I think she
would have answered, "To be the kind
pleasant friend of every day, this is best.
Beauty is very agreeable to the eye, but
uniform good temper is the Heart's Ease
and Delight of life."

49

TO A LITTLE GIRL, WALKING IN
THE WOOD.

hither art going, dear An-
nette ?
Your little feet you'll surelv
wet;
For don't you see the streamlet flow
Across the path where you must go ?
Your shawl is twisted out of place,
Your bonnet's blowing off your face ;
You know not how the playful air
Is tangling up your curly hair.

Lady, my feet I often wet,
But it has never harmed me yet.
I love to have the fresh warm air
Playing about my face and hair ;
in. 4

kk

50 WALKING IN THE WOOD.

It makes me lively, bright, and strong ;
And clears the voice for my morning song.

But do you often go alone,
So far away from your own dear home ?
Not even a dog to frisk and play,
And guide you on your lonely way ?

My mother cannot spare the maid,
And I am not at all afraid.
The wind plays mischief with my curls,
But does no harm to little girls.
There cannot be a lonely way,
When Spring makes every thing so gay.
The birds are warbling forth a tune
To welcome dear delightful June ;
In the running brook, the speckled trout,
At sight of my shadow, glides about ;
The little miller in the grass
Flies away for my feet to pass ;
And busy bees, through shining hours,
Play hide-and-seek in opening flowers ;
The bright blue sky is clear and mild ;
How can there be a lonesome child ?

Sweet wanderer in the cool green wood,
I know your little heart is good ;

WALKING IN THE WOOD. 51

And that is why the fair earth seems
Just waking up from heavenly dreams.
There's something in your gentle voice
That makes my inmost heart rejoice.
Pray, if it be not rudely said,
What's in your basket, little maid ?

Lady, the nurse, who watched my slumber,

And told me stories without number,

Is now too ill to work for pay,

And she grows poorer every day.

Custards, and broth, and jellies good,

My mother sends to her for food.

I bring the » water from her well,

And all my pretty stories tell.

Sometimes she loves to hear me read ;

Her little garden I can weed ;

And half the money in my purse

I gladly save for dear old nurse.

But if I stay to talk so free,

She'll wonder where Annette can be.

Farewell, sweet wanderer of the wood,
I knew your little heart was good ;
And that is why the fair earth seems
Just waking up from heavenly dreams

52

MUSICAL CHILDREN.

eorge Frederic Handel,
the greatest among musi-
cians, was born in 1684r
at Halle, in Saxony. In
early childhood, he be-
trayed a very strong in-
clination for music. But
his father, who was a
physician, wished him to be a lawyer ; and
fearing that music would distract his at-
tention from study, he carefully kept him
out of the way of musical company, and
would not allow a musical instrument of
any kind to be in the house. It happened
however, that in some house which he fre-
quented, he heard a person play on a harp-
sichord ; and his eager desire to practise
what he heard was increased by the fact
that he never heard any instrument at
home. The boy was so unhappy, that an

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 53

old servant in the family took pity on him,
and helped him to procure a small clavi-
chord, which he hid in the garret. When
every body else was asleep, the child prac-
tised diligently, and soon learned to play
extremely well, without the slightest in-
struction.

When he was about seven years old.
his father went to visit a son much older
than Frederic, who lived with the Duke of
Saxe-Weissenfels. The child had a very
great desire to go, and being refused, he
followed the carriage out of the yard, cry-
ing. His father, seeing the tears roll down
his cheeks so plentifully, stopped and took
him in.

He was allowed to ramble about the
duke's palace as he liked, and he could not
resist the temptation to play on a harpsi-
chord, whenever he met with one. One
morning, after religious service in the cha-
pel, he stole up to the organ, and began to
touch it before the Duke had gone out. —
Something singular in the style of playing
attracted the duke's attention, and he in-
quired, who was at the organ ? He was
very much surprised when he was told
that it was a boy of seven years old. He
immediately sent for the father, and told

54 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

him this was no common case ; that the
boy had very remarkable genius, and ought
to be allowed to devote his time and ener-
gies to music, because he would certainly
distinguish himself in that, and would nev-
er be able to do any thing else half so well.
His father, thus entreated, consented that
he should receive a musical education. He
improved so rapidly, that before he was
nine years old, he composed several motets
of such merit that they were adopted into
the service of the church ; and from that
time, he composed a new cantata every
week, for three years. He afterwards be-
came the most renowned of musical compo-
sers. His productions are of a grand and
elevated character. The Oratorio of the
Messiah is the most celebrated.

John Sebastian Bach was born in 1685,
at Eisenach, in Germany. He belonged to
a family noted for musical talent for many
generations ; but he was the most distin-
guished of them all. His father died when
he was ten years old, and he was left in
the care of an elder brother, who was an
organist. His brother instructed him in

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 55

music, but he found his lessons too easy,
and begged for compositions more difficult
to practise. His brother, not being aware
of his superior abilities, and fearing he
would not be sufficiently thorough, refused
his request. The boy looked with longing
eyes upon a book containing pieces for the
clavichord, by the most celebrated compo-
sers of the day. At last, he got possession
of it secretly. It was kept in a closet,
which had a door of lattice-work. He
could pass his small hand through some of
the open spaces, and, by rolling the music
up, could draw it through, and afterward
replace it carefully. While others were
asleep, he copied the precious notes ; and
having no candle, he was obliged to work
by moonlight. It took him six months to
finish this laborious task ; but his eager
desire to practise the difficult music gave
him patience. He had just copied the last
notes, when his brother discovered what
he had been doing, and took the manu-
script away from him. He was doubtless
afraid that his pupil would not be suffi-
ciently slow and thorough in obtaining
elementary knowledge of music ; there-
fore, his motive was a good one ; but it
seemed cruel to deprive the patient little

Ob MUSICAL QHILDREN.

fellow of what he had toiled so long to
obtain. He did not recover his treasure,
until some time after his brother's death.

He gained great distinction by his talent
and learning, and his compositions, which
are mostly for the church, are of a grand
and profound character, and maintain a
very high rank in the musical world. One
of the most observable features of his char-
acter was uncommon modesty. When ask-
ed how he had made himself so great a
master of his art, he answered, " I was
obliged to be industrious. Whoever works
as hard, will succeed as well."

Joseph Haydn was born in 1732, at
Rohrau, a village of Austria. His father
was a poor wheelwright, and sexton of the
parish. Both he and his wife were very
fond of music. On Sundays he used to
play on the harp, while she accompanied
him with her voice. These home concerts
delighted little Joseph amazingly. At five
years old, he used to get a board and stick,
on such occasions, and play that he accom-
panied his parents on a violin. His father
had a cousin Frank, who was a school-

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 57

master and musician. He observed that
the little fellow kept time very accurately,
and he offered to educate him. The pro-
posal was very gratefully accepted, and he
immediately began to teach him Latin, to
play on the violin and other instruments,
and to sing at the parish church. But
Haydn used to say, he gave him more
cuffs than gingerbread.

Reiiter, chapel-master at Vienna, came
to the village in search of singers for St.
Stephen's cathedral. His attention was
attracted by the fine voice of Joseph
Haydn, then eight years old. He was sur-
prised at the exactness of his execution,
and the beauty of his voice. Observing
that he did not perform the shakes, he
asked him the reason. " How can you ex-
pect me to shake, when my cousin Frank
does not know how himself?" replied the
boy.

" I will teach you/' said Reiiter. He
took him between his knees, and showed
him how he should rapidly bring together
two notes, hold his breath, and agitate the
palate. Joseph immediately made a good
shake. Reiiter was so delighted, that he
took a plate of fine cherries, which cousin
Frank had presented to him, and emptied

11

58 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

them all into the boy's pocket. In his
manhood, Hadyn often told this story with
a laugh. He said, Whenever he performed
a shake, he still seemed to see those beau-
tiful cherries.

Reuter carried him to Yienna and placed
him in the choir, where he remained eleven
years, devoting himself to music with un-
remitting industry.

At ten years old, he composed pieces for
six or eight voices. In his first attempt at
composition, he was very much troubled
by want of knowedge. The chapel-master
gave no instruction in counterpoint, and
the boy was too poor to pay for a master.
He bought some old books on the subject,
which were very imperfect and obscure,
but he had the patience and industry to
labor through them unaided. He was
poor and friendless, and lived in a misera-
ble garret ; but afterward, when he came
to be the favorite of princes, he often said
those youthful days were the happiest of
his life, because he was always so busy,
and so eager adding to his stock of knowl-
edge.

Haydn became one of the most celebra-
ted among musicians. His compositions
are usually of a clear serene character, like

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 59

a grand or beautiful landscape in the sun-
shine. The oratorio of the Creation is
considered his greatest work.

JOHANN CHRYSOSTOM WOLFGANG GoTT-

lieb Mozart, son of a musician of consid-
erable reputation, was born in 1756, at
Salzburg, in Germany. When a child of
three years, he excited remark by the live-
ly attention he paid to lessons on the harp-
sichord, given to his sister, then rather
more than seven years old. It was then
his favorite amusement to find out thirds,
and other harmonious intervals on the in-
strument, and when he discovered them
he was delighted beyond measure. At
four years old, after listening to a con-
certo, he always remembered the solos per-
fectly ; and in half an hour he would
learn to play a minuet on the harpsichord,
with perfect correctness. Very often, he
composed little pieces of music for himself,
as he played. His father used to write
them down, and some of them are still
preserved.

He was early accustomed to see his
father copying music, and; as soon as he

60 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

could hold a pen, he began to imitate this
employment. One day, when the father
came home from church with a friend, he
found little Wolfgang very busy with pen
and ink.

" What are you doing there 1" said he.

'• Writing a concerto for the clavier,"
replied the boy.

" Doubtless it must be something very
fine," said the father, smiling ; "let us
look at it."

At first, he and his friend began to laugh,
for the notes looked like a blackberry pud-
ding,, and were almost illegible. The lit-
tle composer had been so intently occupied
with arranging his music, that he dived
his pen deep down into the inkstand, and
dropped a great blot on the paper every
time he took it out. These blots he wiped
away with his hand, and went on scrib-
bling. When his father had looked at the
manuscript long enough to decipher it, he
perceived there was both method and mu-
sic in it. He was affected even to tears at
such a proof of genius in his little son.

" See !" said he to his friend; " this is
written with a full score of accompani-
ments, yet how correct it is ! But nobody
could play it, the music is so very difficult."

MUSICAL CHILDREN. Gl

" It is a concerto," rejoined Wolfgang,
" and must be practised before it can be
performed. This is the way it ought to
go ;" and he tried to play it, but could on-
ly give a general idea of the effect he
wanted to produce.

The same eagerness and intelligence was
manifested in every thing to which he turn-
ed his attention, whether play or study.
At one time he had a great passion for
arithmetic, and the floor, chairs, and tables
were covered with figures; so busy was he
with his little calculations. In childish
games he was often so interested, that he
would entirely forget to eat. But 'he soon
ceased to care much about any play, un-
less music were mixed with it. Andreas
Schachtner, a musician, was an intimate
friend of his father, and an especial favor-
ite with little Wolfgang. When this com-
panion was with him, he delighted to have
a march played on some instrument, while
the family carried his playthings from
room to room in procession.

When he was six years old, somebody
presented him with a little violin, suited to
his size. On this instrument he displayed
a more surprising degree of talent, than he
had before done on the clavier. Soon af-

r^^

62 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

ter he received it, his father was one day-
rehearsing a new piece of music, with sev-
eral other performers, among whom his
favorite Mr. Schachtner was to play the
second violin. Little Wolfgang begged
hard to play that part himself; but his fa-
ther told him it was impossible, because
he had never received any instruction on
that instrument. The boy answered, that
he did not think a person needed any
teaching to play the second violin part. His
father bade him go away, and not disturb
them with his teasing. He went off with
his little violin, crying so bitterly, that his
good-natured friend begged that he might
be allowed to come back and play the sec-
ond violin part along with him. The fa-
ther consented, provided he would play
very softly, so as not to confuse the other
musicians by his mistakes. But the boy •
played so well, that Mr. Schachtner soon
found there was no occasion for him. He
therefore quietly laid aside his violin, and
looked expressively at the happy father,
who could not help shedding tears of de-
light when he heard his child play with
such perfect correctness. He was so en-
couraged by his own success, that he wan-
ted to try the first violin. " For amuse-

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 63

ment, we encouraged him to try," says
Mr.Schachtner, " and we laughed heartily
at his manner of getting over the difficul-
ties of this part, with incorrect and ludi-
crous fingering, indeed, but still in such a
manner that he never stuck fast."

He was particularly partial to Mr.
Schachtner's violin. On account of its
smooth soft tone, he always called it ' the
butter fiddle.' One day, when this friend
came in, Wolfgang was playing on his own
little violin. " Why did you not bring
your butter fiddle V1 said he ; " If you
have not tuned it, since I played with you
the other day, it is half a quarter of a tone
flatter than my violin." The family all
laughed at this extreme exactness of ear
and memory ; but the violin was sent for,
and it proved that the boy was correct.

The sharp sound of a trumpet pained
his ear exceedingly. He had the greatest
possible fear of it. His father thought to
cure him of this terror, by making him ac-
customed to the sound ; but he turned pale
and sank on the floor at the first blast, and
would probably have gone into fits, if the
sound had been repeated.

His sister, Maria Anna, nearly five years
older than he, was a remarkably skilful

34 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

performer on the clavier. When Wolfgang
was six years old, their father took both the
children to Vienna, where they played be-
fore kings, princes, and nobles, and every
body was delighted with them. The em-
press gave the little musician an elegant
suit of clothes, with broad golden borders,
made for her own son, and gave to his sis-
ter a rich robe of embroidered taffeta, made
for one of the little princesses. Wealthy
people invited them, and sent their carri-
ages for them, and from all classes of peo-
ple they received the most flattering atten-
tions. But in the midst of all his honors,
Wolfgang remained a simple, artless child.
He loved every body that seemed to have
a kind heart, and spoke candidly without
any regard to rank. He jumped up in the
lap of the empress, and kissed her as hear-
tily as if she had been his own mother.

When he heard one of the young princes
play badly on the violin, he exclaimed,
1 Ah that was out of tune !' But presently,
he called out, ' Bravo ! that was well
done !' One day, when two of the little
princesses were leading him across the
room, being unused to a floor so highly
polished, he slipped and fell. One of the
royal children took no notice of the acci-

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 65

dent ; but the other, who was afterwards
Maria Antoinette, queen of France, helped
him to rise up, and tried to comfort him.
"You are very kind to me," said he ; "I
will marry you, because you are so good."

His disposition was always extremely
affectionate. Many times a day, he would
ask his father and mother, and sister, ' Do
yeu love me V and if they did not answer
very readily, the tears would come into his
eyes. He composed a little tune, which
must be sung, with certain formalities, ev-
ery night before he went to bed. Stand-
ing in a chair by his father's side, he sang
one part, while his father sang the other.
At the pauses, and after the conclusion, he
would kiss his father on the tip of the nose,
and, having thus expressed his childish
love, he would march off to bed perfectly
contented.

He continued this custom until after he
was nine years old. He was always gen-
tle and obedient, and so attentive to the
wishes of his parents, that he would never
accept a present, or eat any thing that was
offered him, until he had obtained their
permission. It was never necessary to re-
peat any orders twice, except, on the sub-
in 5

66 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

ject of music. He would get so absorbed
in his own compositions, that he would
neglect both food and sleep, and it some-
times became necessary to drive him away
from the instrument.

After their journey to Vienna, his father
took him to the principal cities of Germa-
ny, Bavaria, France, Italy, and England.
He was then eight years old. He played
admirably on the clavier, the organ, and
the violin ; could sing or play the most
difficult music at first sight, and make an
unlimited variety of new melodies to any
bass musicians chose to offer him. In vain
they tried to puzzle the child ; he could
always do, with perfect ease, more than
they required of him. At Heidelberg, his
performance on the great city organ aston-
ished the people so much, that his name
was ordered to be engraved on the instru-
ment, as a perpetual remembrancer.

At public concerts, it was common to try
him with the most difficult pieces of Han-
del, Bach, and other great composers, which
he always played at sight, with perfect
correctness and proper expression. John
Christian Bach, music-master to the queen,
took him between his knees, and played a
few bars of a difficult sonata ; when he

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 67

paused, the boy commenced ; then Bach
played a few bars again ; and thus play-
ing by turns, they went through the whole,
as perfectly as if done by one pair of hands.

A writer in Paris, says : "I have seen
this boy engage in contests of an hour and
a half s duration, with musicians who ex-
erted themselves to the utmost, and even
perspired great drops, to acquit themselves
with credit in an affair that cost him no fa-
tigue. He has routed and put to silence
organists who were thought very skilful in
London. He is moreover one of the most
amiable creatures that can be conceived.
In all that he does and says, there is spir-
ituality and feeling, adorned by the pecu-
liar grace and gentleness of childhood."

In the midst of all his public concerts,
and the multitude of people who came to
see him, he was so diligent, that he found
time to compose a variety of symphonies,
sonatas, quartetts,&c. which were greatly
admired. The Hon. Daines Barrington
heard it often repeated by envious people,
that the boy was not so great a prodigy as
he seemed ; that he studied and practised
music beforehand, and then pretended he
played it at first sight. In order to satisfy
himself on this subject, he carried to him

68 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

the score of a new duet of his own, which
no person had seen, and the child instantly
played and sang one of the parts, without
the slightest effort. A succession of exper-
iments were tried to puzzle him, but in
vain. Yet he was such a mere chiid in
habits and manners, that.Mr. Harrington
says, " While he was playing to me, a fa-
vorite cat came in ; upon which he left the
harpsichord, nor could we bring him back
again for a considerable time. He would
likewise run about the room with a stick
between his legs, by way of a horse."

The same boyish spirit js shown in the
following letter about his bird, written to
his sister, from Naples. " Pray write to
to me how is Mr. Canary ? Does he sing
still ? Does he pipe still 1 Do you know
why I think of the Canary ? Because there
is one in the front room here, which makes
a G just like our Canary." He meant
that the bird sounded the note G in the
same manner.

His simple affectionate nature always
remained uninjured by fame or flattery.
Once, when he woke in the night, he be-
gan to cry bitterly. Being asked the rea-
son, he named, over several favorite musi-
cians, with whom he was in the habit of

MUSICAL CHILDREN. G2

playing at home tti Germany, and said
that he wanted to see them so badly, he
could not help crying.

His father writes : "At Florence, we
met an English boy, who plays exquisite-
ly, and who is just of Wolfgang's size and
age. The other day, this charming boy
brought his violin to us, and played the
whole afternoon. Wolfgang accompanied
him on his violin. The following day, we
dined with the treasurer of the grand duke ;
and there the two boys played the whole
afternoon ; not however as boys, but as
men. Little Thomas accompanied us
home, and cried bitterly on learning that
we were going to set olT the next day ; but
finding that our journey was fixed for noon,
he came to us by nine in the morning, and
presented Wolfgang with some verses he
had got a poetic friend to write for him the
night before. He accompanied our coach
to the city gates. I wish you could have
witnessed this scene." This English boy,
named Thomas Linley, was drowned when
he was twenty-one years old. Mozart
never forgot him. In later life, he seldom
met an Englishman, without speaking of
this early friend.

When the family returned to Vienna,

70 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

they encountered a great deal of trouble,
arising from the envy of musicians, who
had grown weary of hearing the praises of
young Mozart, and were vexed to be thus
eclipsed by his genius. They said that his
success was owing to trickery, that he was
older than he passed for,.&c. The good
father tried to satisfy their doubts, by giv-
ing them the most undeniable proofs of his
own veracity, and of his son's remarkable
powers. But they did not wish to be con-
vinced. For fear they might be compelled
to acknowledge his merits, or lose their
own reputation as good judges of music,
they would avoid hearing him ; and then
if asked what they thought of any compo-
sition or performance of Mozart, they could
answer, ' We have not heard it.' There
is too much of this mean and selfish spirit
among artists. Indeed, the least particle
of it is too much. We ought to delight in
all beautiful works of art, as we do in the
sunshine and flowers.

When Mozart was twelve years old, he
composed an opera, at the suggestion of
the emperor. But the jealous musicians
repeated it so badly, and put so many ob-
stacles in the way, that his father was o-
bliged to give up having it performed.

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 71

Such ungenerofci efforts had no perma-
nent effect. Every year of his life, Mozart
increased his fame by new and beautiful
productions; and though he died at thirty-
five years of age, he left a name renowned
throughout the world. No music excels
his in tenderness of expression, in simple
graceful melodies, and beautiful changes
of harmony. Modern improvements in
the art are more owing to him, than to any
other composer.

No one ought to try to compose music,
unless it comes to him by nature. If a
person has a good ear, patience and prac-
tice will enable him to perform well ; but
nothing original or beautiful can be com-
posed, without that gift of the soul called
genius. A boy, who could play extremely
well on the piano, asked Mozart to teach
him how to compose music. The great
artist told him to wait. "But you compo-
sed when you were a boy," replied he,
somewhat abashed ; " and I thought you
might tell me what books would best teach
me how to do it." Mozart patted him on
the cheek kindly, and answered, " I com-
posed because I could not help it, and I
never asked how to do it." He pointed to
his ear, head, and heart, and said play-

C6 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

fully, " If the music inhere, all will come
right. If not, books will not bring it."

William Crotch was born in Norwich,
England, in 1775. His father, who was a
carpenter, had made a small organ for his
own amusement ; and, when William was
a year and a half old, he would touch the
key-note to show what tune he wanted
played ; and if his father did not under-
stand him, he would play the first three or
four notes himself. When he was two
years and three weeks old, a celebrated
musical lady came to play upon his father's
organ. The child was amazingly delight-
ed to hear her ; and after she was gone,
he became so fretful that nothing his mo-
ther could do would quiet him. When
carried through the dining room, he spread
his hands toward the organ, and cried, and
would not be pacified till they allowed
him to go and bend down the keys with his
little fists. There was nothing very sur-
prising in this, for children always want
to make a jingling noise. But the next
day, when his mother went out and left
him alone with his elder brother, he would

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 7o

not rest, till his brother blowed the bellows
of the organ, while he played. At first, he
rattled over the keys without any order,
just as any very little child would do; but
in a few minutes, he played God Save the
King so well, that his father, at work in
the garret, came down to see who was at
the Organ. He could hardly believe his
own senses, when he saw that it was little
William. He waited with impatience for
the mother to come home. When she ar-
rived, he put on a very mysterious look,
and asked her to go into the dining-room,
where he had something very curious to
show. She was as much surprised and
pleased as the father had been, to hear their
little one play God save the King. One
part he did not play with perfect correct-
ness, because two succeeding sounds were
octaves, and he could not stretch his little
fingers to reach the eighth note. After
that, he was allowed to play on the organ
whenever he liked. He learned different
airs with facility, and sometimes intermix-
ed them with little variations of his own,
which were always agreeable, because his
ear had a natural aversion to inharmonious
sounds.

At two years old, he was often sent for

mm

74 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

to amuse the public by his uncommon tal-
ent. When he was three years old, his
mother took him to Cambridge and London,
where he excited much astonishment by
his performances on the organ. In his
fourth year, he played before the royal
family, at St. James's palace, with great
applause ; and every body was charmed
with his artless, playful, infantile manner.

He could then repeat any tune he heard
once, and if he heard the key of an in-
strument struck in the next room, his ear
was so sensitive to sound, that he could in-
stantly tell what note it was. So many
people went to hear him, that he woulc
sometimes get very tired, and could not b-
coaxed to play any more ; but if any on
else struck a wrong note, he would rou.c
up, and instantly place his ringer on t!
right one.

He afterward received regular instru*
tion at Oxford, where he was appointe
organist, in his eighteenth year, and afte
ward doctor and professor of music. I
was a very well-informed and modest ma
but he had merely a talent for acquirin
without genius for creating. He ga^
lessons on the piano for twenty years, an>
arranged for that instrument many compo

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 75

sitions of the first masters. Of his own
compositions, only one excited any atten-
tion, and that was an oratorio called Pal-
estine.

Samuel Wesley, the son of a clergyman,
and nephew of the celebrated John Wes-
ley, founder of the Methodists, was born
at Bristol, England, in 1766. He first at-
tracted attention by the great delight he
took in hearing his older brother play. If
the music t#acher (^me, and Charles began
his lesson without first calling little Sam-
uel, he would cry as if he had been beaten.
During the lesson, he would stand near
his brother all the time, and play on a
chair, as if he were accompanying him.
Sometimes, when he was practising Han-
del's oratorios, in the evening, he would
join in with his voice, and even find fault
with the playing, when he thought it in-
correct.

When he was between four and five
years old, he got hold of the oratorio of
Samson, and by that alone he taught him-
self to read words ; after that, he learned
the notes, and soon after taught himself to

76 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

write. At five years old, he knew all Han-
del's Messiah by heart, both words and
notes. Whenever he heard his brother be-
gin to play, he could tell at once from
what composer the music was taken, and
what part of the sonata, or overture, it was.

He composed much music before he
could write. The airs of an oratorio call-
ed Ruth, he composed before he was six
years old, and laid them up in his memory
till he was eight, and then wrote them
down. He was never taught to write mu-
sic, but merely from his own observation
he could write out al^the parts of any
thing he composed ; and though he wrote
rapidly, he seldom made any blot or mis-
take.

Dr. Boyce, a musician of considerable
distinction, called to see him one day, when
he was eight years old, and said to his fa-
ther, " Sir, I hear you have got an Eng-
lish Mozart in your house. Young Linley
tells me wonderful things of him." Sam-
uel was called, and soon brought forward
the score of his oratorio of Ruth, which he
was then writing down. The doctor was
extremely well pleased with it. " These
airs are some of the prettiest I have ever
seen," said he. "This boy writes by na-

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 71

ture as true a bass, as I can by rule and
study."

Before he was ten years old, he could
perform the most difficult music on the
harpsichord, or organ, at first sight, not
only with correctness, but with taste.

When he was eleven years old, eight of
his compositions for the harpsichord were
published, with his engraved likeness. —
They are said to evince much science and
taste, but did not become fashionable, be-
cause they contained passages too difficult
for most performers. At the same age, he
composed a march for one of the regiments
of Royal Guards. The Hon. Dames. Bar-
riugton, thinking it would please the boy
to hear his march performed by the band,
took him to the parade ground. It was
the first piece they played ; but when Mr.
Barrington asked him «if he was pleased
with the performance, he answered, ' By
no means.' He was then introduced to
several of the musicians, tall stout fellows,
and they were told that tttis boy, who had
a remarkably delicate ear for music,' was
not pleased with their manner of playing
the first march.

61 What do you complain of?" inquired
one of the band, carelessly.

78 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

" I complain that you have not done jus
tice to my composition," replied the boy.

" Your composition !" they exclaimed,
and looked at him with a mixture of sur-
prise and derision.

With modest calmness he answered, "Yes,
gentlemen, that march is my composition,
and you have almost spoiled it in the play-
ing." They excused themselves by say-
ing that they had exactly copied the man-
uscript placed in their hands.

"The hautbois and bassoons have done
so," he replied, "but the French horns
have not." The original scofe was pro-
duced, and he pointed out the mistakes
that had been made.

The musician listened to him very re-
spectfully, and the march was played again
more correctly, at the end of the parade,
which, with military exactness, closed at
precisely five minutes after ten. Mr. Bar-
rington asked him whether he was pleased
this time ? He said, " Very much ; but it
ought not to be reserved for the last piece ;
because the great clock of the Horse Guards
strikes ten before it is finished, and the
tone of the clock does not harmonize with
the key-note of the march."

This boy had nobler gifts than a quick

■

few

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 79

•

ear, and a talent for music ; he had deli-
cate feelings, and a kind heart. Mr. Har-
rington asked him to comp»se an easy
melody for master Crotch, then little more
than two years old. He did so, and they
went together to hear him play it. But
William was tired, and out of humor. —
Master Wesley did all he could to please
him. He even consented *o play upon a
cracked violin for his amusement. But
the baby was not in a mood to entertain
visitors, and he could not be coaxed.

When the company found out who young
Wesley was, they insisted that he should
play on the organ ; but this he constantly
declined. As he was generally very will-
ing to oblige people, Mr. Barrington. on
their way home, inquired why he had re-
fused to play, when so much urged. " I
did not like to do it," he replied ; "I was
afraid the friends • of little master Crotch
might think I wished to shine at his ex-
pense."

Samuel Wesley lived to be nearly sev-
enty-two years old. He composed a great
deal of organ music, which maintains a
high rank in the opinion of scientific
judges. He was a great admirer of Sebas-
tian Bach, and, like him, his music was

80 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

mostly of an elevated and solemn charac-
ter, such as anthems, motets, and other
composition^ for the church.

Angelica Catalini was born in 1784, at
Sinigaglia, in Italy. She was educated at
the convent of St. Lucia, near Rome.

When only seven years old, her full rich
voice attracted great attention. Immense
crowds came to listen to her, and there
was so much pushing and disputing for a
chance to get near enough to hear, that the
magistrates were obliged to interfere. In
order to preserve the peace of the town,
they forbade her singing any more at the
convent. At fourteen years old, she ap-
peared as a public performer, and soon be-
came very celebrated throughout Europe.

Mrs. Wood, who is such a favorite sing-
er, both in Europe and this country, like-
wise gave very early indication of musical
talent. When she was five or six years
old, being on board a steam-boat, for the
first time, she was much attracted by the

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 81

puffing of the engine. " What makes that
noise V' she asked. Being told it was the
steam going off, she listened very atten-
tively; then running up to her father, she
exclaimed, " Papa, the steam is going of!
in the key of A." He struck his tuning-
fork, to ascertain the pitch of sound, and
smiled to find it was just as his little girl
had said.

Nicolo Paganini was born at Genoa, in
Italy, in 1784. As soon as he could hold
a violin, his father made him sit beside
him, and play almost from morning till
night. This injured the poor child's health
so seriously, that through his whole life he
was nervous, feeble, and haggard in his
appearance. His father is said to have
been a very avaricious man, and to have
cared less for his child's welfare, than for
making money by his talent. Nicolo was
urged on by his mother, likewise, who was
very ambitious that he should become a
famous musician. When he was a very
little fellow, she held him on her knees,
and told him she had dreamed that an an-
III. 6 nn

82 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

gel came to her and said her son would be
one of the most celebrated performers in
the world.

When he was in his eighth year, he com-
posed a sonata, and his performances were
considered so remarkable, that he was of-
ten called upon to play in. churches, and
at musical parties. His first public ap-
pearance was at Genoa, when he was in
his ninth year. The applause he received
greatly excited his father's hopes of mak-
ing him very profitable. He took him to
Rolla, a distinguished musician in Parma,
and asked him to give him lessons. When
they called, he was ill in bed, and the
boy, being left in an adjoining room, began
to play one of Rolla's concertos, which he
saw lying there. The composer started
up in his bed, much excited, and could
hardly believe that what he heard was the
performance of a little boy. " I can teach
him nothing," said he ; " you had better
go to Paer."

Paer was a distinguished composer of
operas, and Nicolo studied under his direc-
tion six months. During this period, he
composed twenty-four fugues for four
hands, without the aid of any instrument ;
for Paer insisted that he should put the

Mt.StCAL CHILDREN. 83

compositions on paper directly from his
own head. •

His father took him to all the principal
cities of Italy, and made a great deal of
money by the exhibition of his talent. He
appears to have been a very parsimonious
and severe man, and the manner in which
he treated his nervous and impressible son
had a gloomy effect on the artist's charac-
ter through life.

Paganini became celebrated throughout
the civilized world. Every where his play-
ing produced the greatest excitement. —
Poets called his violin a ' nest of birds and
sunbeams,' because the tones were so won-
derfully bright and melodious. When he
broke three strings, and played entire pieces
on one string only, many of the ignorant
multitude believed he dealt in witchcraft:
and when he died, the Catholic church in
Italy refused to bury him in consecrated
ground, on the charge that he was a ma-
gician, whom the devil assisted to perform
such extraordinary things. But the only
magic he used was great perseverance, and
the spirit that aided him was a natural
genius for music.

84 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

•

Ole Bull was born in 1810, in Bergen,
Norway. He belonged to a very musical
family, and was observable in infancy for
extreme quickness of ear. He had an un-
cle who played well on the violoncello, and
had a curious collection of musical instru-
ments. Little Ole delighted to visit this
uncle, who was very fond of him, and lik-
ed to amuse himself with the child's sus-
ceptibility to sound. When he was three
years old, he often put him in the violon-
cello case, and hired him with sweetmeats
to stand still while he played. The candy
would keep him quiet for a few minutes ;
but his little foot soon began to beat time,
and his eyes grew brighter and brighter.
At last, the music would set all his nerves
dancing so, that he could not possibly stay
in the violoncello case ; then his uncle
would laugh.

When the child went home, he would
take the yard measure, instead of a violon-
cello, and, with a small stick for a bow,
would imitate all the movements of the
tune he had heard. He could hear it in
his own mind all thfe time ; but for fear
father and mother would not understand

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 85

his silent tune, as well he did, he would
stop to explain how beautifully the bass
came in, at some particular place.

When he was five years old, his uncle
gave, him a small violin, brightly varnish-
ed, and as yellow as a lemon. This made
him almost crazy with joy. He hugged it,
and kissed it ; it seemed to him so very
beautiful, that little yellow violin ! He
was a happy child, when he first drew a
tune out of it, with his own little fingers.

To the surprise of his family, he imme-
diately played well on it ; though, like lit-
tle Mozart, he had never received any in-
struction. But from the time he could run
alone, he had been present at frequent con-
certs, both at home and at his uncle's, and
he had observed how the musicians man-
aged their instruments. He had no diffi-
culty in remembering tunes ; on the con-
trary, if one pleased him, he could never
get it out of his head. On his little yellow
violin, he played a quartett of Pleyel's, to
the musical club in the. habit of meeting at
his father's house. They were perfectly
astonished, and inquired who had taught
the boy. But nobody could tell, any bet-
ter than they could explain how the mock-
ing-bird learned to imitate the bob-o'-link.

86 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

When he was eight years old, a French-
man arrived in Bergen, with violins to sell.
One of them, of a very pretty form, and
bright red in its color, gained Ole's heart
at first sight, and he pleaded with his fa-
ther, till he consented to buy it. It was
purchased late in the afternoon, and put
away in its case. Ole slept in a small bed,
in the same apartment with his parents,
and the coveted instrument was in an ad-
joining room.

" I could not sleep,'* said he, " for think-
ing of my new violin. When I heard fa-
ther and mother breathing deep, I stole out
of bed, lighted a candle, and, in my night-
clothes, did go on tiptoe, just to take one
little peep. I opened the case. The vio-
lin was so red as a cherry, and the pretty
little pearl screws did smile at me so ! I
must touch it. I pinched the strings, just
a little, with my fingers. Then it did
smile at me ever more and more. I took
up the bow and looked at it. It said to me
that it would be so pleasant to try it across
the strings ! So I did try it a little ; just
a very little ; and it did sing to me so
sweetly ! Then I crept away farther off
from the bed-room. At first, I did play
very soft. I made very, very little noise.

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 87

But presently I did begin a capriccio, which
I liked very much ; and it did go ever
louder and louder : and I forgot that it
was midnight, and that every body was a-
sleep, The capriccio did go ever wilder
and wilder, and I did think of nothing, till
I hear a step behind me. It was my fath-
er. ' What do you mean by making such
a noise, and waking up the whole house
at this time of night?' said he. In my
fright, I did drop my little red violin on the
floor, and it was broken. They sent it to
a doctor the next day, but it did never re-
cover its health."

Ole was a very strong and active child.
He learned every thing fast, and did every
thing with all his might. He would leap
fences like a deer, turn somersets like a
harlequin, and climb trees like a squirrel.
Because he was always darting and driv-
ing about, his family called him 'The Bat.'

At school, he seemed quite stupid, if the
master insisted upon his stating sums on
the slate, and working them out by the old
method ; but if left to pursue his own
course, he would do the sum in his mind,
and give the correct answer in far less
time than it would take to state it. He
was never taught to read music. He knew

88 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

the sound each note ought to have, long
before he could call it by name ; and while
he was still a very young child, he learned
to read music, in all its complicated vari-
ations, merely by observing the musicians.
When he was ten years old, a foreign
music-master persuaded his 'father that it
was absolutely necessary that he should be
taught music by rule. Accordingly, he be-
gan to take lessons. He was told that he
must handle his bow differently, must hold
his violin quite otherwise, must practise
music by note, and not by his ear, and
when he was playing an air, he must
break himself of the habit of composing
variations of his own. The boy, wishing
to please his father, tried to do the best he
could ; but the movements of his soul were
too rapid, and he had been too long accus-
tomed to a quicker process. He could not
learn any thing in the way his master pro-
posed. The more he tried, the more he
was annoyed and distressed. At last, it
made him so nervous, that in the midst of
his lesson he screamed aloud. His father,
aware that he was by nature unlike other
children, became convinced that it was not
wise to subject him to such painful drill-
ing, when he could learn so much faster in

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 89

his own way. Indeed, there seemed to be
no need of troubling him thus ; for even at
that early age, he could play a capriccio
of Paganini's, which older and skilful mu-
sicians considered too difficult for them.

His aversion to lessons from his music-
master did not arise from indolence ; for
he was earnest and diligent in learning
whatever he undertook. It was merely
that he had a process of his own, which
answered better for his keen quick nature,
than the common and slower method.

In manhood, Ole Bull became very cel-
ebrated. No violinist, except the famous
Paganini, ever drew such crowds to hear
him. He could play a distinct part on
each of the strings at once, so that it soun-
ded like four violins. This is an extreme-
ly difficult task, and no other performer
ever had sufficient strength and pliability
of muscle to execute it. His compositions
are full of tenderness and poetic feeling.
Kings have presented him with diamonds,
and poets have sung his praises in a variety
of languages. He visited the United States
in 1843, and almost every American child
has heard of his sweet music.

90 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

Franz Liszt was born in 1811, in Reid-
ing, a village of Hungary. His father,
who was a musician of high reputation, in
the service of Prince Esterhazy, soon per-
ceived that the boy inherited more than
his own talent. At a very early age, he
would repeat on the piano the tunes he
had heard played, and he did it with so
much spirit and expression, that his father
could not help embracing him. " Ah. my
son," he would say, "I see that you will
be all that I have imagined and wished to
be in music, but have never been able to
realize. My life will be renewed in you,
and bear its fruit."

At nine years old, Franz made his first
appearance in public, in the neighboring
city of Oedenberg. He performed a diffi-
cult concerto, and concluded with a fanta-
sia, which he composed as he went along.
The audience were surprised at his skilful
playing, and still more by the genius indi-
cated in his extemporaneous composition.
His father wept tears of joy, friends em-
braced him, and Prince Esterhazy put fifty
ducats into his little hand, in gratitude for
the pleasure he had received. He gave
concerts in other cities with similar success.

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 91

At his first performance in Vienna, the
celebrated Beethoven was present, and
gave his warmest words of praise and en-
couragement. Wealthy, men interested
themselves to increase his father's salary,
that the remarkable boy might have the
best possible means of obtaining a thorough
musical education. All this applause did
not make him vain or idle. It only stimu-
lated him to greater exertions, lest his
friends should be 'disappointed in their ex-
pectations. He studied with the most un-
remitting industry, and of course made
rapid progress.

Before he was fourteen years old, he
composed an opera, called The Palace of
Love. It was performed at the royal acad-
emy of music, in Paris, with great ap-
plause.

As he passed into manhood, his musical
progress, through the various cities of Eu-
rope, was a succession of triumphs, though
not unattended by the envious enmity,
which always follows great success. His
health being en&ebled by constant exer-
tion, he went to Italy, for the benefit of the
pure and balmy air. He was playing to
crowded houses, when he heard of a great
inundation of the Danube, in Hungary, by

92 MUSICAL CHILDREN.

which thousands had lost their property ;
and he resolved at once to return to his
native land. He was received with un-
bounded joy. Hungary was proud of her
distinguished artist. Mothers pointed him
out to their children as he passed, and told
how famous the 'little Franz' had made
himself, and how he could play a • whole
book full of beautiful stories on the piano.'
He played to overflowing houses, and
gave the proceeds to cities that had suffer-,
ed by the inundation. This raised the en-
thusiasm of his countrymen to the highest
pitch. He was complimented with seren-
ades, and whenever he appeared in the
street, or in public places, he was greeted
with huzzas, and garlands were showered
upon him. It must do a man's heart good
thus to benefit his native land, and at the
same time give delight to thousands by his
genius.

-& -^ -4fc -& -& -3fc -M;

"(V* TV* *7V" 1v •7Y" "TV" -7v

Very few, since the creation of the world,
have had such remarkable musical endow-
ments as those I have mentioned. Men
are as various in their gifts as are the flow-
ers of the field. One can write a beauti-

MUSICAL CHILDREN. 93

ful bookj but cannot compose an opera ;
another can invent a valuable machine,
but cannot write a book. Some can only
build well the edifices that others have
planned ; and some can only perform skil-
fully the music that others have composed.
But every human soul would be beautiful,
if each would delight in the talent of oth-
ers, and earnestly improve its own, whe-
ther great or small.

94

A DREAM.

HEN I am awake, my
soul looks out, through
my senses, on this visi-
ble world of green grass
and blue sky, as a little
child looks out through
an open window. But
there is another inner
world, invisible to the senses : and when
eyes and ears are closed in sleep, my soul
visits this inner world, and there sees and
hears many beautiful things. Sometimes
I remember the things I see ; and when I
remember them, they are called dreams.

Once, in my sleep, I seemed to be in a
most beautiful place. There were little
rills of the clearest water, like fluid crys-
tal in silver channels. There was a mild
golden transparency in the light, and the
soft shadows of the foliage played grace-

A DREAM. 95

fully with it, as they danced about over
the verdant lawn. Among this play of
shadows and golden sunshine, were groups
of little children, with happy eyes and
shining hair.

I wanted to ask them what place this
was, where all things seemed so very beau-
tiful ; but as I moved toward them, they
all began to jump and sing, and their joy-
ful voices sounded like a chorus of silver
bells. I said to them, ': Why are you so
glad, little ones']" They answered, "A
good little child is dying ; and we rejoice
because the angels will bring her to live
with us."

" How will she get here ?" I asked. A
little one, who was caressing a dove on her
arm, looked up in my face and smiled, as
she pointed to an arch in the distance, cov-
ered with evergreen vines. " The good
child will come through that arch," she re-
plied. " Those who live on the earth call
it Death ; but we call it The Entrance in-
to Life."

" Is she afraid to come?" said I.

" She was afraid," they answered ; "for
a little while ago, she could not see how
bright and pleasant it is on this side of the
arch. But now she sees us, and hears our

96 A DREAM.

happy voices, and she loishes to come to
us. Her mother stands weeping by her
bedside, and she wonders what makes her
babe smile so sweetly ; for the mother does
not see us, or hear the angels singing ; but
the child does."

When I turned to watch for the little one
coming from the outer world, she had al-
ready passed through the evergreen arch,
and came bounding toward her bright com-
panions. They ran to meet her, offering
doves and flowers ; and I heard a sound
as of golden harps from above, and in har-
mony with the harps were many sweet
voices singing, " The mortal child has be-
come an angel."

97

WILLIAM BURTON,
THE BOY WHO WOULD BE A SAILOR.

WILLIAM BURTON

was a bright intel-

ligent boy, the son
of a farmer in Connec-
ticut. The neighbours
all agreed that he could
plough better than any
man in the county ; and
it was a common proverb to say, ' as neat
as William Burton's garden.' He was ex-
tremely industrious. The only relaxation
he allowed himself was reading, and at-
tending an evening school, that was kept
in the village where he resided. He sel-
dom visited, except at the house of Mr.
James Hall, who lived but a few rods from
n i 7 oo

98 WILLIAM BURTON.

his father's dwelling. Mary Hall, just
I wo years younger than himself, attended
the same evening school ; and whenever
the weather was stormy, or the snow deep,
William always a^ked her to ride in his
sleigh, or pung, as it was called. She was
an active, hlooming girl ; with cheeks as
red as health and industry could make
them, and a lovely expression of kindness
and good-nature, that always lighted up
her face, like sun shine.

William and Mary seemed to each other
like brother and sister. They had been
playmates from their earliest infancy, they
had always attended the same school, anr1
Mary's own and only brother, seven yeai
older than herself, was generally absent &
sea. Mrs. Burton loved Mary as if si
had been her own daughter. The sour
of her light footsteps always made her fe*
happy, and she wTould smile affectionately .
as she said, ' There comes my busy bee

Mary well deserved the good opinion ■
her friends ; for she was uncommonly c
pable and industrious, fond of her woi
and fond of her books, and always bu-
with one or the other. William was er
tremely attached to her. The best berrie
*nd the finest flowers were always givei

WILLIAM BURTON. 99

to his mother, and the next best were al-
ways reserved for ' little busy bee.'

Many and many a pleasant sleigh-ride
they had home from school, daring the
winter-evenings, when the earth was all
covered with snow, and the frosty trees
danced and sparkled in the moonbeams.
Sometimes they repeated their lessons, and
puzzled each other with curious questions
in arithmetic : and sometimes they talked
about brother Silas, and the wonderful
things he would bring home, after a two
year's voyage.

Mr. Hall's parlour was already well fill-
ed with shells, and coral, and war-clubs
from the Sandwich Islands, and carved
boxes, and painted glass from China. The
sight of these things, and the frequent con-
versations he heard about Silas's adven-
tures, inspired William with an earnest de-
sire to become a sailor. Having once
taken this thought into his head, it grew
stronger and stronger every day. He bor-
rowed all the books of voyages he could
hear of for miles round, and all his leisure
moments were employed in making little
imitations of Otaheite canoes, and New-
Zealand spears.

At last, he confessed to his father that

100 WILLIAM BURTON.

his happiness depended upon going to sea.
Mr. Barton was very sorry to hear this.
He represented to him how happy he was
at home, and how much hardship and suf-
fering he would have to endure if he be-
came a sailor. His mother wept, and beg-
ged of him to give up the idea. She ask-
ed who would take care of the farm, when
his father was old ; and what she should
do for a son to wait upon her, if he persis-
ted in leaving them.

" Oh, Mary will wait upon you, dear
mother," replied William; "You know
she loves you as well as she does her own
mother."

" That is true,*'" rejoined the anxious pa-
rent ; " but she cannot make your place
good, William ; and then how lonesome
poor Mary will be. You have always
been together since you were babes ; and
I am sure it will almost break her heart, if
you go away." Mrs. Burton wiped her
eyes as she spoke, and laying her hand af-
fectionately on his head, she added, " Wil-
liam, if you love your mother, you will
make up your mind to stay at home."

The boy was impressed with the tender
solemnity of her manner, and he resolved
to think no more about being a sailor. But

WILLIAM BURTON. 101

he had already thought too much upon
the subject, to drive it easily from his mind.
When Silas Hall came home, a few months
after, William was with him constantly,
listening to his entertaining stories, with
an eagerness that greatly distressed his
kind-hearted parents. From this time, he
became less cheerful than usual, he lost
his appetite, and seemed to be constantly
struggling with some inward trouble. At
last Mr. Burton said to his wife, "My dear
Judith, it is plain our boy has set his heart
upon being a sailor ; and I am afraid no
good will come of crossing his inclination.
We had better let him go one voyage ; and
perhaps by that time, he will grow tired of
it himself."

Mrs Burton was a discreet woman, and
she at once perceived it was best to adopt
the plan her husband proposed. The ten-
der parents told William that they consen-
ted to his becoming a sailor; and although
he little guessed how many sighs and tears
it cost them, he felt a good deal of sorrow
mingle with his joy. He was an affection-
ate, disinterested boy ; and something with-
in told him it was wrong to indulge his
own inclinations at the expense of giving
others pain. For a few days it was difii-

102 WILLIAM BURTON.

cult to tell how he would decide ; but love
of adventure finally conquered love of
home. His father, deeming it best for him
to go a short voyage at first, obtained a
situation for him on board a vessel bound
to Santa Cruz.

Mary Hall, who had never passed a week
in her life without seeing William, was
very sad when she heard he was going a-
way. " If I could only persuade Silas to
stay at home," said she, ' I should not feel
so unhappy ; but to have them both go a-
way is too much. I shall take no more
comfort going in the woods for berries, or
riding in the sleigh ; and who shall I have
to bring me books to read, or tell me sto-
ries, now 1 "

Silas and William tried to comfort her,
by promising to return soon, and brin^
many pretty things. But Mary only cried,
and said she loved them better than all the
pretty things in the world. "And I lov(
you," replied William ; " I am sure there
is nobody but my mother, that I love bet-
ter than I do you ; but it is foolish to take
on so, just because I am going to see a lit-
tle of the world."

" But you may be shipwrecked," saic
Mary.

WILLIAM BURTON. 103

" Fiddle faddle," exclaimed Silas, who
was a merry careless lad ; " and if he stays
at home, perhaps the old cow will hook
him. I never yet knew a woman that
had a speck of courage."

Mary did not like to be laughed at ; so
she dried her tears, and said not another
word about shipwrecks and disasters. She
busied herself with making shirts for Si-
las, and in packing up such of her books
as she thought William would like the
best. These, with two large cakes and a
cheese, which Mrs. Hall had made for him,
were given to William the day he came to
bid them good-bye.

" I have put Robinson Crusoe among the
books," said Mary ; "because if you are
cast away on a desert island, you may
want to remember every thing that Crusoe
did."

* Why, Mary, I am only going to Santa
Cruz," replied William ; " and there are
no desert islands on the way. I shall be
back again, before the pet lamb is a year
old ; and that will be but little while, you
know."

" I hope it will be so," said Mary; "but
Santa Cruz seems to me a great way off ;
and though you and Silas do laugh at me,

104 WILUAM BURTON.

1 can't help thinking sometimes that you
will never come back again." The tears
came in Mary's eyes, as she talked ; and
William, stout as he was, had to turn sud-
denly away, to keep from crying.

To part from his mother was a still
harder task. All her kindness and all her
love for him, rushed on his memory ; and
when he spoke to her, his voice was very
soft and low, because his heart was full.
She put a copy of the New Testament in-
to his hand, at parting, and said, " Keep
that as long as you live, my son. When
you are tempted to do evil, let that be your
guide."

William went through his farewells with-
out a tear. He fed the pet lamb, and pat-
ted the calf, and shook hands with Mary,
and kissed his mother, and then sprung
lightly into the wagon, that was to convey
him and his father, and his friend Silas, to
Hartford. His hand trembled a little, and
his heart swelled ; but he checked his tears,
until he looked back and saw his good mo-
ther standing on the door-step, watching
for the last glimpse of the wagon, as it
slowly rolled away ; and then he could
contain himself no longer ; he hid his face
l.i his hands, and sobbed like an infant.

WILLIAM BURTON. 105

His father, in hopes of dissuading him from
his purpose, told him that he could still re-
turn home, if he chose ; for he could easily
get him excused. He was then thinking
so much of his mother, and of his pleas-
ant rides with Mary, that I think he would
have gone back, had not Silas watched
him so anxiously. When he looked at his
young companion, he brushed away his
tears, and smiling said, " You have often
told me, father, that it was not a good sign
for boys to change their mind. I have not
changed mine. Silas says he felt just so,
the first time he left home to go to sea ;
but he has got over it now."

In a few minutes William brightened
up, and they all talked cheerfully together
during the rest of the ride. Parting with
his father was a fresh trial ; but it cost
him less pain than his first farewell ; for
he was not leaving so many surrounding
objects, that reminded him of home and
childhood.

On board the ship all was novelty, and
he thought he should be perfectly happy ;
but he soon found it was otherwise. The
smell of the vessel made him very sea-sick,
the ropes took the skin off his hands, and

PP

10G WILLIAM BURTON.

the rough sailors laughed at his awkward-
ness, and called him ' a land-lubber.'

During the first half of his voyage, he
had in fact a great many miserable hours.
Had it not been for Silas Hall, he would
have been perfectly wretched ; and even
he, being thoughtless and. fond of fun,
would sometimes join in the laugh against
the ' land-lubber.' By degrees, however,
William became expert in his new duties,
and learned to enjoy himself, as the other
sailors did.

When he returned home, after a prosper-
ous voyage, his inclination for a seafaring
life was not in the least abated. He
brought home a new dress for his mother,
and a neat little basket for Mary, filled
with such curiosities as he had been able
to pick up in the island. Among these was
a necklace made of the hard black seeds
of the soap-tree, so called because the seed
-vessel contains a substance which answers
all the purposes of soap. Another curiosi-
ty was the large seed-vessel of the sand-
box tree, which being stripped of its husk.
and highly varnished, made a beautiful
sand-box. The sides were finely curled
and fluted, and the ends were perforate:
with very neatly cut little holes, as if na-

WILLIAM BURTON. 107

hire intended it on purpose for a sand-box.
When prepared for use, one of these ends
was sealed up, and the sand passed through
the other. William told her that if it had
not been varnished immediately after the
husk was taken off, it would have burst
into a dozen pieces ; for this seed-vessel
has an expanding power, like that of the
Touch-me-not, and when it explodes, it
makes a noise like a small pistol.

William's short visit at home passed
very pleasantly. He had not half time
enough to tell all' the new things he had
seen, and ask all the questions he wanted
to ask. His next voyage was to Liverpool;
and this time he was separated from his
friend Silas, who sailed about the same
time for Rio Janeiro. He returned in safety
from his second voyage, and found all well
at home. He brought his mother and Ma-
ry several small presents ; the most curi-
ous of which was a perfect little pair of
scissors, not longer than a fine needle.

He remained at home several months,
during which time Silas came home for a
few days. The three young friends were
constantly together ; and though Mary
loved her brother dearly, I think it would
have made her blush to have asked her

108 WILLIAM BURTON.

whether she loved him better than she
did William.

One day, when they had been walking
down by the pond, to gather lilies, Silas
met them loitering along, looking very
happy. He stopped, and with a very ro-
guish glance, said, "William, you used to
love Mary almost as well as your mother.
Do you now V:) The young couple blush-
ed very deeply, and both felt m their hearts
that they were dearer to each other than
brother and sister. Then Mary grew more
bashful than she had been. She did not
look William in the face when she talked
to him, and when she wanted any thing
done, she was more apt to ask Silas to do
it. For several days they shunned each
other, as if they were afraid. But one
day, when William went to bring home the
pet sheep and her little ones, he met Mary
in the fields, and he told the sweet girl that
he loved her with more than a brother's
love, and that he should not be happy, un-
less she consented to be his wife. Mary
was very modest, but very frank. She
readily acknowledged that she loved Wil-
liam better than any body else in the world,
and that she would consent to be his wife,
if their parents had no objection

WILLIAM BURTON. 109

As soon as she reached home, she told
her mother what William had said, and
how happy she was; for the good girl nev-
er had any secrets from her mother. The
parents were all well pleased with the
news ; indeed it had long been the cher-
ished wish of their hearts to see their dear
children united, when they had arrived at
a suitable age. To be sure, they thought
them too young at present ; for William
was but twenty, and Mary but seventeen
years of age. But they had always been
distinguished for discretion, and an early
maturity of character, which made them
seem older than they really were.

Mrs. Burton was particularly rejoiced at
the engagement of the young couple. She
knew that Mary was a very sweet-temper-
ed, industrious girl, who would be always
kind and affectionate, and keep her house
as neat as wax-work. Beside all this, she
hoped William loved her so well, that he
would never again be willing to leave her
for the dangers of the sea ; but in this she
was mistaken. When a love of rambling
has been once indulged, it is very difficult
to conquer it. One of William's favorite
shipmates wrote him word that a beautiful
vessel, called the Sea-Gull, was about to

110 WHLLIAM BURTON.

sail for the Sandwich Islands, and that he
never would have a better chance to see
that famous race of savages, of whom Cap-
tain Cook had given such an interesting
account. William had always had a very-
strong desire to visit the islands of the Pa-
cific. He said he was rather too young to
be married, so he would take just one voy-
age more, and then return to settle on the
farm for life.

" Captain Cook was murdered at those
very islands," said Mary, looking down, to
hide the tears that were gathering in her
eyes.

" I remember that," replied William,
"but the people are almost civilized now.
While men trade with them, and even live
there in perfect safety."

" But what good can it do for you to
go?" asked Mary; "you have read all
there is to know about them."

" I shall lay up some money," answered
William.

" But, my dear friend, we do not want
money," answered the contented girl; "we
have every thing for our comfort, and a
king need not wish for more."

" The fact is, I have set my heart upon
going," replied William ; " now don't say

WILLIAM BURTON. Ill

any thing to make me feel unhappy about
it ; that's a good girl."

Mary could not resist this appeal. She
said no more against his project, but em-
ployed .herself busily in preparing every
thing comfortable for his voyage.

His mother could not so easily become
reconciled to his wishes. She seemed more
distressed than she had been at first. Her
love for her only son increased to %uch a
degree, and poured itself forth in such a
multitude of affectionate attentions, that it
became almost painful to him. Once he
awoke'at midnight, and found her stand-
ing by his bedside, shading the light with
her hand, and looking earnestly upon him
with a mingled expression of love and anx-
iety. She kissed him, and bade him good
night, saying she had dreamed of seeing
him. struggling alone in the sea, and she
could not go to help him.

This incident affected the young man
very much. He never forgot that expres-
sion of his mother's face. I wonder such
an affectionate son had the heart to go to
sea, when he knew how many anxious
hours it would cost those whom he loved
so tenderly. But he did go : and his friends
iried to bear it as cheerfully as they could.

112 WILLIAM BURTON.

His mother's farewell words were, " Re-
member your poor old mother, William,
when you are in a' distant land ; and never
part with the Testament she gave you."

The young sailor promised tearfully, and
pressed Mary's hand, as he whispered, u I
shall come back before two years are gone,
and then we shall be 5.9 happy in our own
little home."' The affectionate girl cover-
ed her*faee with her hands, and burst into
tears.

Slowly and reluctantly, William turned
away. The last glimpse of his friends
was the waving of handkerchiefs, which
were gradually lost in the distance ; and
then he did indeed feel all alone in the
world.

This voyage was not destined to be as
fortunate as the preceding ones. The cap-
tain was cruel and tyrannical, and the
crew were of course dissatisfied and disor-
derly. William was disgusted with theii
proceedings, and a thousand times wished
himself at his own peaceful and happy
home. Things grew worse and worse on
board the vessel. At last, the crew became

WILLIAM BURTON. 113

so angry at the captain, that in a rage one
night, they set all the officers adrift in a
boat, and swore they would shoot them if
they tried to come back. William would
have given a good deal to save the poor
men from the danger to which they were
exposed ; but he could not do any thing to
help them, and he was afraid to say any
thing, lest the violent crew should kill him.

When the officers were gone, the mis-
guided crew became very riotous. They
were intoxicated more than half the time.
They were afraid of going to the Sandwich
Islands, lest they should be taken up by
some of their countrymen there, on suspi-
cion of having murdered their officers ; and
had they wished to go to their destined
port, not one of them knew how to steer
the vessel, and no one was willing to obey.

During this gloomy period, William very
often thought of his kind mother, and his
gentle Mary. He seldom lay down for the
night, without remembering how he had
waked and found his mother watching ov-
er him with such depth of love. He sol-
emnly resolved, if God pleased to spare his
life, and restore him safely to his family,
that he would never leave them more.
in. 8

Ill WILLIAM BURTON.

The only consolation he had left in his
forlorn condition was the company of the
young man who had written to urge him
to undertake this ill-fated voyage. He was
a sober, good-hearted lad. who never join-
ed in the excesses of the sailors. William
and he held many counsels Together in pri-
vate, and they both agreed to ran away
from the vessel, whenever the crew land-
ed : for they felt certain that their fate
could not be worse than it would be if they
remained with such drunken and desperate
men.

After drifting about for some weeks, they
came within sight of a long group of isl-
ands, in about the middle of the Pacific
Ocean, and a few degrees north of the
equator. A near approach showed pleas-
ant groves of cocoa-nut and bread-fruit
trees, with a few Indian cottages sprinkled
here and there. As the crew were greatly
in want of fresh water, they resolved to
land on one of the islands.

As soon as the Sea Gull was observed
from the shore, the natives began to put
off in their boats. They were at first ra-
ther afraid ; but one of them being temp-
ted to come on board, received some glass
beads and old nails, which pleased him

WILLIAM BURTON. H5

mightily. This encouraged the others to
come within speaking distance, and a
friendly intercourse was soon established.
The crew then put off from the Sea Gull
in boats, in search of fresh provisions and
water.

The Mulgrave Group are surrounded, as
most of the Pacific Islands are, with large
reefs of coral, which make it very difficult
to come near the shore. In consequence of
this, the crew of the Sea Gull could not
approach the land, for the purpose of fas-
tening their boats ; and if they were left
unfastened, there was danger of their drift-
ing out into the open sea. The savages,
perceiving this, seized hold of the rope, and
diving down into the water, tied it fast to
a strong branch of coral. This is a rude
way of casting anchor ; but it is very safe,
and well suited to their reefy shores.

The Mulgrave Group presents a very
picturesque appearance. It consists of long
narrow islets, with reefs of coral, and spots
of verdure interspersed, dotted with clumps
of cocoa-nut and bread-fruit trees, and
pretty little wigwams, made of sticks in-
terwoven with leaves. The natives were
very friendly and obliging. They would
run after the white men all day long, with

116 WILLIAM BURTON.

their arms full of cocoa-nuts and bread-
fruit, in hopes of getting a few rusty nails
in return. William and his friend John
Gordon were much troubled to hear the ri-
otous crew say they liked tire place so
much that they intended to build a town,
and spend their lives there. When they
first heard this determination, they almost
despaired of escaping from them ; but Wil-
liam said, " Let us keep quiet, and trust in
God. He will prepare the way for us, if
we resign ourselves to his will." His mo-
ther's Testament was now invaluable to
him. It afforded him great consolation,
and was associated with dearest recollec-
tions of his far-off home across the waters.

The crew erected a tent on shore, in
which they placed the tools and provisions
from the Sea Gull. Had they treated the
natives with justice and kindness, I dare
say they might have been very happy in
those quiet and beautiful islands. But
some of the sailors were bad men, and
nearly all of them were becoming more and
more addicted to intoxication.

William Burton and John Gordon were
the only ones that, uniformly dealt honestly
and gently with the savages. They never
cheated, them, never told them an untruth.

WILLIAM BURTON. 117

never spoke to them in anger, and occa-
sionally made them some trifling presents,
to conciliate their good will. William gave
the chief's wife a bright yellow cotton
handkerchief, with a picture of Washing-
ton in the middle ; and never was a Duch-
ess half so proud of a coronet of diamonds.
In the excess of her joy she threw her arms
round his neck, and kissed him as eagerly
as a little child would have done. This
method of testifying her gratitude was not
very pleasing to the young man ; for the
naked arms of the/ sa,vage were well smea-
red with cocoa-nut. oil, which sends forth
a most nauseous smell ; and Burton's jac-
ket and vest were well nigh ruined by her
embrace. Some of the crew would have
been in a great rage at this ; but Burton
knew the old woman meant it kindly, and
he did not show the least displeasure.

Gordon gave the chief a small hatchet,
for which he returned a great heap of co-
coa-nuts. The next day he gave the
chief's lis tie daughter, about seven or eight
year's old, a string of red glass beads ;. and
it would have amused you to see how the
little creature capered, and clapped her
hands. Her name was Tamahoogah. A
few hours after she received her present,

118 WILLIAM BURTON.

she came running towards Burton, with a
straw mat, which her mother had woven,
and which she made signs that he must
accept. He took it very gratefully, be-
cause he thought it would make her happy
to see that her present was valued. The
straw was indeed beautifully white, and
the workmanship was elegant. The edge
was ornamented with black diamonds,
worked with straw that had been colored
with the husk of the cocoa-nut.

The women wear two of these mats tied
about the waist with a beautiful round cord
of braided straw. They ornament them-
selves with necklaces and bracelets made
of shell, some of which are really tasteful;
and when they can obtain bright flowers,
they make them into wreaths, with which
they decorate their heads.

The men wear long bunches of grass
made of the bark of a running vine. These
bunches are of a reddish colour, and do
not look unlike a horse's mane. They
likewise wear ornaments made of whale's
teeth and shells. They are of moderate
stature, and generally very finely formed.
Their deportment is manly, and their walk
very majestic. Their countenances are
intelligent, their features comely, and their

WILLIAM BURTON. 119

complexion not very dark. They have
long glossy hair, which is always tied very
neatly on the top of their heads. They
are very remarkable for white, even teeth,
and a sweet breath, which may be attrib-
uted to their simple and healthy mode of
life.

They appeared to be an innocent and
amiable set of people ; and had all the
white men been as good as Burton and
Gordon, they might have associated to-
gether in safety and peace. But the wick-
ed crew would. steal their cocoa-nuts, and
refuse to give them any thing in return.

The natives, having this bad example
before them, stole muskets and hatchets
from the tents. The white men fired at
one of the thieves, and killed him. This
provoked the savages, and they came in
great numbers, with stones and spears
pointed with sharp fish-bones, to kill the
white men. ' The chief laid hold of Bur-
ton, and dragged him into the bushes; and
an old man treated Gordon in the same
manner. Both of them expected to be
murdered ; but they soon discovered that
they were hidden among the bushes to be
safe till the massacre should be over. Ev-

I2C

WILLIAM BURTON.

ery other individual of the crew perished
by the hands of the exasperated natives.

Lugotna, the chief, signified by signs,
and by the few words which Gordon's for-
mer visits to the Pacific Islands enabled
him to understand, that Burton must live
with him to do his work, aud Gordon must
serve the old man who had saved his life.

It was a desolate lot thus to be cut off
from all intercourse with white men, and
obliged to become servants to savages ; but
their situation was much better than they
had reason to hope ; and with sincere
hearts, they returned thanks to God for
their preservation.

William Burton was very fortunate in
the master he served. Lugoma loved him
as if he had been his own son. He gave
him plenty to eat, and never required him
to work too hard. He looked upon him as
a superior being, and seemed to think he
knew every thing. The chief's hut was
clean and comfortable, about ten or fifteen
feet high, with a. sort of garret, separated
from the room beneath by a floor of sticks
thickly interwoven with leaves. The low-
er floor was paved with the finest pieces of
coral. A clump of cocoa-nut and bread-
fruit trees spread their waving tops and

WILLIAM BURTON. 121

broad green leaves above it, filling the mind
with ideas of abundance and beauty.

Near the hut was a small space of ground,
which was tabooed ; that is, consecrated.
It was the burial place of the island chiefs.
At the head of each grave was a cocoa-
nut tree, bound round with dry leaves, to
show that no man must touch the fruit.

Little Tamahoogah, who followed Bur-
ton like a shadow, accompanied him and
her father to this sacred spot, begging him
at every step not to tread on the graves of
her ancestors. Burton took great pains to
please them in this, and in all other re-
spects. He never gave them offence but
once, and that was through ignorance of
their customs.

As he sat at -work one day, mending a
fishing-net, he whistled a tune. Upon this,
every one of the family began to shriek
and howl ; and Lugoma hastily rose, and
covered his mouth with his hand. Burton
afterward found that they had a great dread
of whistling, because they thought it would
bring the spirits of the dead about their
houses. He ever after refrained from whist-
ling ; for he did not wish to frighten the
ignorant creatures, whom he could not in-

122 WILLIAM BURTON.

struct, because he understood their lan-
guage so imperfectly.

But the savages were not always quite
as attentive to his feelings, as he was to
theirs. He found every metal button strip-
ped from his- clothes, and he afterwards
saw them worn as necklaces. He did not
care very much about this. He could do
very well without buttons in such a place
as the Mulgrave Islands ; and he remem-
bered that these simple creatures had never
been taught any better, and that an old
brass button was as valuable in their eyes,
as a ruby would be to us. But he was not
quite as patient when a boy ran off with
one of his striped mittens, into which Ma-
ry Hall had knit his name. He ran full
speed after the thief, but he could not ov-
ertake him. When he told Lugoma of his
loss, he either could not. or would not, un-
derstand him. He never saw his mitten
again.

This made him more careful of his other
treasures. He kept them carefully hidden
among the leaves of the garret floor ; and
the first time he and Gordon were trusted
out alone, they buried the other mitten,
which was likewise marked with his name,
a little locket containing some of Mary's

WILLIAM BURTON. 123

hair, a purse belonging to Gordon, and ten
Spanish dollars. The only things he ven-
tured to keep about him were Mary Hall's
Robinson Crusoe, and the Testament his
mother had given him.

Gordon was less fortunate than his com-
panion in captivity*. He was treated kind-
ly, but the old man who had saved his life
was wretchedly poor. His family lived
upon a kind of food, called bup, and even
of this they had not half enough. The
Bup tree is from twenty to thirty feet high,
and not more than six inches in diameter.
It stands on several roots, or prongs, by
which it is propped up two or three feet
from the ground. The fruit exactly resem-
bles a pine apple. When ripe, it has a
nauseous perfume, and a cloying taste.
When half ripe, it is baked under hot stones
and eaten. Some eat it raw. The juice
has a sweet taste, like that of a green corn-
stalk. The knowledge of this tree would
be invaluable to shipwrecked seamen, as it
is found every where in the Pacific islands,
and will sustain life when nothing else can
be found.

Gordon would have liked it very well
for a variety ; but he had nothing else to
eat, and not enough even of that. Being

124 WTI-UAM BURTON.

obliged to work very hard, he soon grev*
sickly, and lost his strength. Many plans
of escape were formed by him and Burton;
but it was impossible to execute them. —
The natives had burne#d the Sea Gull, af-
ter stripping her of every bit of iron, and
rag of cloth. It was daftgerous to put out
to sea in a canoe, without pilot or compass;
and even if they had ventured to do so.
the savages, in their rude but very swift
sailing boats, would soon have overtaken
them. By degrees they abandoned all
thoughts of such projects ; and concluded
to wait patiently, till some European vessel
should visit their lonely and unfrequented
residence.

Burton's situation was tolerably comfor-
table in every respect, except separation
from the friends he loved ; but poor Gordon
was half starved. As soon as they learned
the language sufficiently to make them-
selves understood, Burton besought Lugo-
ma to take his wretched companion into
his employ ; telling him it was the only way
to save his life. At first, Lugoma said he
had not bread-fruit and cocoa-nut enough
for another person; but he finally consented,

And now the two friends were happier
than they had been at any time since they

WILLIAM BURTON.

125

left home. The two books were indeed a
treasure. They spent hours and hours ov-
er them, in the privacy of their little garret
For many months, they succeeded in keep-
ing them hidden from the natives; but Lu-
goma one day caught Gordon looking at the
pictures in Robinson Crusoe. He had no
idea what a book was; but he seemed very
much frightened, and snatching it out of
his hand, he instantly tore it into a. million
of pieces. When they remonstrated with
him, he said there was witchcraft in it, and
it would bring the spirits of the dead about
his hut. Having caught sight of the Tes-
tament, he would have treated that in the
same manner, had not Burton told him it
would make the Great Spirit very angry if
he destroyed it. This alarmed him so
much that he did not venture to touch it.

Soon after, his little daughter Tarnahoo-
gah fell sick and died. The superstitious
chief thought the Great Spirit had killed
her, because he had torn Robinson Crusoe:
and from that time the sight of the Testa-
ment made him tremble, and he did not
dare to contradict the white men. He seem-
ed to think they knew every thing in the
universe, and could do every thing. Bur-
ton tried to teach him about God, who

126 WILLIAM BURTON.

made all, and sustained all ; but he could
never find out whether he understood what
was said. One day, in order to try whe-
ther he had any idea of a Superior Being,
he asked him who made it thunder ? Lu-
goma looked up with great simplicity, and
answered, " I suppose you -can make it
thunder."

Little Tamahoogah was buried beside
her ancestors. A cocoa-nut tree, bound
with withered leaves, was placed at the
head of the grave. The body was borne
on sticks to the place of interment, follow-
ed by a large concourse of friends, who
moved along in a disorderly manner, some-
times howling and lamenting, and some-
times playing funny tricks to make each
other laugh. When the child was buried,
a little canoe with a sail to it, laden with
bread-fruit and cocoas, was sent off from
shore, with a fair wind, in order, as they
said, to bear the spirit of the dead away
from the land of the living.

The white men were very sorry for Ta-
mahoogah's death ; for she was a cheerful,
affectionate little creature, and very much
attached to them. She would run up the
cocoa trees like a monkey, to gather fruit
for them, and she took particular pleasure

WILLIAM BURTON. 127

in gathering fresh sweet leaves for their
pillows. Burton wished to carve her name
and age on the bark of the tree ; but Lu-
goma would not allow it, for fear it would
bring her spirit to the hut.

Burton and Gordon lived with Lugoma
four years ; during which time they learnt
to climb the trees as actively as the na-
tives, to strip off the hard bark of the co-
coa with their teeth, to paddle a canoe as
swiftly, and to fish as expertly at the chief
himself. They taught the women new
fashions of braiding straw, and making
baskets, and instructed Lugoma in the art
of raising vegetables in his garden. The
Mulgrave language became perfectly famil-
iar to them, and they were frequently trust-
ed to carry messages to the neighboring
chiefs.

This life would not have been without
its charms, had not their hearts been sick
for home. In the solitude of his garret,
how often did poor Burton think of Mary's
tears, when he said to her. that he should
come back in two years, and then ' they
should be so happy.' How often did he
think of his good mother, when she laid
her hand so affectionately on his head, and
said, ' William, if you love your mother

128 WILLIAM BURTON.

you will make up your mind to stay at
home.' He never opened his Testament,
without thinking of her. One night, after
he had been reading it, he fell asleep ; and
he saw his mother standing by his bedside,
looking on his face with the same fondness
and anxiety that she had done, when she
dreamed that he was drowning. He start-
ed up, and asked Gordon if he had seen
any one in the room 1 He could not believe
it was atdream. It seemed as if her kind
face had been actually bending over him.

This incident made his heart yearn more
than ever for home. He took every oppor-
tunity to watch the ocean, in hopes of see-
ing a vessel. But once, and once only,
during four years, did he see a speck on
the horizon, that looked something like a
distant sail. Better luck came at last.

They were one day employed in fishing,
according to the fashion of the Mulgraves.
A stone pen was built by the shore ; a long
line of dried cocoa-nut leaves was spread
round it, and Burton and Gordon waded
out beyond the leaves, to drive the fish in-
to the pen. It is remarkable, that when
the fish are once inclosed in this way, they
never attempt to pass the line of cocoa-

WILLIAM BURTON. 129

leaves, though they might swim under
them just as well as not.

While the young men were thus employ-
ed, Burton clapped his hands and exclaim-
ed, " A ship ! a ship ! an American ship !"
His eyes did not deceive him. An Ameri-
can ship was indeed about to anchor a-
mong the Mulgraves, in search of fresh
water. Unluckily, Lugoma saw it before
they did ; and immediately came with his
canoe, and brought Burton and Gordon a-
shore, before their countrymen caught sight
of them. They were immediately convey-
ed to the garret, and guarded by ten In-
dians, who had orders to put them to death
if they attempted to escape, or even to
speak loud. They remained there three
days, during which time they frequently
heard the voices of their countrymen in
the room below. Once, William was very
sure he heard Silas Hall's voice, and it
seemed as if his heart would burst, so ea-
ger was he to spring into his arms.

Perhaps the ship would have sailed a-
way, and no one onboard would have sus-
pected that two fellow-countrymen were
left captive in the island. But it so hap-
pened that Silas Hall, who was actually
in. 9 rr

130 WILLIAM BTJETON,

on board this vessel, bound from Canton to
New York, began to dig for water at the
identical spot where William had buried
his mitten and other treasures. He started
when he saw the name of William Burton
knit in the mitten ; and hastened to make
the discovery known to his officers. This
at once excited the suspicion that the crew
of the Sea Gull had been murdered by these
savages. Strict inquiry was made, but
they received little or no information. The
constant sight of metal buttons, nails, &c.
convinced them, more and more, that white
men had been on the island.

At last, they threatened the chief, if he
did not make known to them what had be-
come of these white men, they would go
and bring a large ship with guns, that
would make the whole Mulgrave Group
shake, and kill all their men, before they
had time to look about them. This threat
alarmed Lugoma. He asked Burton and
Gordon if the white men spoke true. They
told him that their countrymen had guns
louder than thunder, that would kill twen-
ty men at one blow. Lugoma stretched
himself up very tall, and said he would go
and fight them with his musket. This
made them laugh ; for he had nothing but

WILLIAM BURTON. 131

an old rusty musket without powder or
ball ; but he had such an idea of its pow-
er, that he thought he could conquer all
his enemies with it.

Burton assured him that he would have
bad luck, if he did not let him see his coun-
trymen. Lugoma asked if his book told
him so. Burton put on a very serious look,
and told him to wait and see if bad luck
did not come upon him. This seemed to
frighten the simple chief. He said he
would send them to the ship, if he were
not afraid their countrymen would come
and kill his people, for having murdered
the crew of the Sea Gull. Burton tore a
blank leaf from his Testament, and wrote
as follows, with a stick dipped in cocoa-
nut dye : —

• " Tivo Americans are here in captivity
in the garret of Lugoma' s hut. Be res-
olute in demanding them ; but on no ac-
count let any one of the natives be injured
for past transactions. They were less to
blame than others, and they have been ex-
tremely kind to us. W. Burton."

He gave this paper to the chief, and told
him that he and all his people would be
safe, if he would carry it to the captain of

132 WILLIAM BURTON.

the ship. But Lugoma shrunk back and
screamed, " Take it way ; take it way. It
will bring the spirits of* my fathers to my
hut."

Burton then begged that he and Gordon
might carry it ; and gave his word of hon-
or that no harm should come to him, or
his people. This was at last agreed upon.

The timid chief, with a troop of follow- ,
ers, went with them, constantly exclaim-
ing, " We have loved you, and fed you ;
and you must not deceive us."

The sailors did not recognise their cap-
tive countrymen wThen they first came in
sight ; for the tropical sun had made them
almost as dark as the Indians. They wore
mats round their bodies, and their hair was
tied upon the top of their heads. When
Burton exclaimed, " Here we are !" it sent
a thrill through every heart. They eager-
ly gathered round him. But he, having
caught sight of Silas Hall, in a boat at a
little distance from shore, rushed into the
water, leaped into the boat, and throwing
his arms round his friend's neck, burst in-
to a passionate flood of tears.

As soon as he could speak, his first words
were, " Is all well at home ?"

" All well," replied Silas ; and his own

WILLIAM BURTON. 133

voice was so choked that he could hardly
speak.

" And dear Mary, and mother ? God
bless them !" exclaimed William.

Silas repeated his assurances that they
were well, when he left home.

Oh, that blessed word home ! It makes
the heart of the strong man leap like the
heart of a little child. For a few minutes,
William was really delirious with emotion.
He did not know what he said. He
jumped, and clapped his hands, and laugh-
ed, and cried all in a minute ; nor could he
be quieted, until he had had a hearty fit of
sobbing.

Gordon, though deeply affected, was less
so than his friend. Lugoma looked on
them both with utter astonishment. He
did not know what to make of their pro-
ceedings. At first, he was a little afraid
of the white men, notwithstanding the pro-
mises he had received. But the present
of an axe for himself and a bright red shawl
for his wife, made him more confiding ;
and before twelve hours had elapsed, he
went on board, and seated himself as fa-
miliarly as any of the crew.

When he returned to the island, he called
to Burton and Gordon to go with him, and

134 WILLIAM BURTON.

was grievously disappointed when they
told him they must stay on board, and re-
turn to their own country. At first, he re-
fused to be comforted. He repeated again
and again, " Who shall I have to fish for
me, and mend my canoe, and plant my gar-
den, when you are gone ? Lugoma will be
left alone in his old age."

Burton and Gordon reminded him
that they both had fathers in a distant
land, whose hearts yearned for a sight of
their long-lost sons. This seemed to touch
the feelings of the kind old man ; and when
Silas Hall promised to give him two pigs
and a whole suit of clothes, and plenty of
excellent seed to plant his garden, he con-
sented, though with great reluctance, to
give his captives in exchange.

The day the vessel got under sail, a sin-
gular and picturesque group were assem-
bled in front of Lugoma's hut. Burton and
Gordon, dressed in sailor's clothes, and ac-
companied by several of the crew, went on
shore to make some parting present, and
bid farewell to the kind untutored family,
where they had so long resided.

It was a pretty sight to see the natives,
dressed in their best mats and finest orna-
ments, scattered about under the shade of

WILLIAM BURTON. 135

the broad-leaved trees. Some of them
were very still and melancholy, others
were showing their gaudy beads triumph-
antly, and two of them held the pigs in
their arms, and fondled them as if they
had been delicate babes ; the ungrateful
pigs, meanwhile, kicked, scratched, and
squealed, with all their might. Lugoma
and his wife were very sad. They really
loved the two young Americans, and
when about to part from them, they threw
themselves into their arms with loud lam-
entations. Burton and Gordon promised
to send them a present by the first oppor-
tunity, and to visit them again if ever they
came near the Mulgrave islands. The
simple and affectionate couple followed the
ship several miles in their canoe. Then
calling out, " You must come and see Lu-
goma again, before he dies," they sorrow-
fully turned the boat toward their island
home. The vessel swept on with a fair
wind ; and Burton and Gordon lost sight
of the Mulgrave islands, never to see them
more.

The wonderful adventures of the two
wanderers furnished an abundant theme
for conversation, as the Flying Fish pur-
sued her homeward track. The young

136 WILLIAM EURTON.

men always spoke of their former masters
with kindness, and even with affection ;
but they sometimes indulged in a laugh at
the extreme simplicity and ignorance of the
untutored Mulgraves.

" What figures they were," said Gordon,
" when they dressed themselves up in the
tattered garments of our crew. Some had
on only a pair of pantaloons, another an
old coat, without any buttons, and another
nothing but a ragged jacket, which had lost
one sleeve. In this fantastic and beggarly
garb, they went dancing about, looking at
themselves and each other with infinite
pride and satisfaction."

Silas Hall said he did not think they lost
much by exchanging their straw mats and
bunches of grass for ragged jackets ; but
Willi im Burton insisted that their native
dress, rude as it was, had something wild,
graceful, and becoming in its appearance.

" Nothing amused me so much," said he.
" as Lugoma's veneration for my old mus-
ket, without a particle of powder or ball.
His last request was that I would not carry
away my musket ; for if I did, his enemies
would come and kill him. When I pro-
mised to leave the musket, he seemed to-
feel perfectly safe."

WILLIAM BURTON. 137

In such discourse they passed away ma-
ny of the tedious hours of a long voyage.
They had a great deal of stormy weather,
and the Flying Fish was several times
driven out of her course, and enveloped in
so thick a fog, that her track was com-
pletely lost for several days. During one
of these fogs, the vessel struck on a reef of
sharp coral, and was so much injured that
there was great danger of her sinking. By
taking an observation of their latitude and
longitude, they ascertained that they had
gone out of their course considerably to the
north-west, and were now close upon the
Society Islands. They were obliged to put
into Otaheite for repairs ; during which
they suffered the usual inconveniences of
having their ropes, tools, nails, &c. stolen
by the natives. A stout savage ran off
with one of Silas Hall's boots ; not know-
ing, or forgetting, that one could do him
no good without the other. Silas after-
ward found the boot wrapped in a piece of
tappa, and hidden among a heap of cocoa-
nuts. When he drew it forth, the natives
made a great laugh, and seemed -to think
their thieving countryman had done a very
witty thing.

Considerable delay was occasioned by

138 WILLIAM BURTON.

the loss of their track, and the necessity of
repairs. William was more restless and
impatient than he had been during his
long captivity. The captain used to jest
with him, when he saw him so very anx-
ious. He said he was very sorry he could
not accommodate him with any thing
swifter than a Flying Fish ; he wished in
his heart he could charter the sea-serpent
for his accommodation.

But there was one affectionate spirit at
home even more impatient than his own.
Mr. Hall had seen it announced in the pa-
pers that the Flying Fish had been spoken
off the Ladrones, on her way homeward ;
and from that day, Mary read the ship
news with greater eagerness than ever.
Mince-pies, and apple-pies, and pumpkin-
pies, had been made again and again for
Silas, and still he came not. The anxious
girl began to think in her heart that he too
was gone ; that she had lost both brother
and friend.

She was one afternoon sitting at the
window sewing, and trying to talk cheer-
fully to her mother, when she saw the
mail-stage stop at the post-office. There
was no one in the house to go for the pa-
per, and Mary put on her bonnet and dart-

WILLIAM BURTON. 139

ed out, saying, "I cannot wait, dear

mother. I must go." In a few minutes

she came back, and, without stopping to

seat herself, turned eagerly to the ship

news. Her mother fixed an anxious, in-

Iquiring look upon her, and saw her turn

very pale, and stagger backward towards

|the wall, as if she had received a heavy

•blow. She sprang toward her, and said,

; half shrieking, " Oh, Mary, is he dead ?"

" No, no !" replied Mary, faintly. The

I effort to speak relieved the icy feeling at
her heart, and she burst into tears. Mrs.
Hall took the paper from her hand, and
• read — " The Flying Fish spoken oft the
Bermudas ; having onboard William Bur-
: ton and John Gordon, picked up at the
' Mulgrave Islands, where the remainder of
> the Sea-Gull's crew were murdered by the
natives, after having mutinied and turned
their officers adrift in a boat, which has
never since been heard of*"

" His poor mother !" exclaimed Mrs.
Hall ; and she too laid down the ipaper
and wept.

Three weeks afterward, Mary was star-
tled at midnight, by hearing a voice near

140 WIILLIAM BURTON.

her bedside, saying, "Mary — dear Mary !"
It was her brother Silas ; and, a few min-
utes after, William Barton clasped his
long-lost treasure to his bosom. After he
had looked deeply and tenderly into her
eyes for a few minutes, and rapidly kissed
all the members of her dear family, he ex-
claimed joyfully, " And now for my dear
mother !"

The expression of Mary's countenance
changed suddenly, as she said, " You had
better wait till morning, William."

" Oh, mother won't mind being waked
up, when she finds who waked her," re-
plied he, as he gaily turned to go.

" But, William dear, do wait till morn-
ing, and then I will go with you," said
Mary.

" I cannot wait so long to see my dear
good mother," answered he, impatiently ;
" I must go wake her."

Mary took his hand, and held him back.

" What is the matter?" asked he, turn-
ing pale.

She burst into tears, and exclaimed,
" Oh William, you cannot wake her. She
will wake no more in this world."

The young man did not speak for many
minutes. He seemed as if suddenly de-

WILLIAM BURTON. 141

prived of his senses. When Mr. Hall, by-
way of consolation, spoke of his mother's
blameless life and peaceful death, he bow-
ed his head on his hands, and answered,
in a tone of bitter anguish, " Oh it would
have been better for me to have died in
the Mulgrave Islands."

But the next day he was more resigned,
and could listen to all the details of his
mother's illness and death. She began to
decline when William had been gone two
years and a half ; and a year after, she
was in her grave.

" Oh, Mary, do you think I killed her?"
asked he, with such an expression of utter
wretchedness, that Mary pitied him from
the very depths of her heart.

She assured him that the physicians had
said, from the beginning of her illness,
that nothing could save her ; and that,
though she had constantly talked of him,
she had never spoken a word of reproach.

" She was too kind to do that," replied
he, in a tone of deep sadness ; u but who
can tell how much sorrow I caused
her?"

Months after, as they stood by his mo-
ther's grave, he said to Mary, " How she
always loved me ! How she comforted

142 WILLIAM BURTON.

all my troubles ; what warm mittens she
knit for me ; how she always saved a por-
tion of every thing for me, even if she de-
prived herself. When I grew older and
more manly, with what delight she used
to gaze upon me. And to think I broke a !
heart that loved me so ! Oh, Mary, I |
shall never forget her anxious look, as she
stood by my bedside. Even now, I seem
to feel the pressure of her gentle hand up-
on my head, and hear her loving voice
saying, ' William, if you love your mo-
ther, you will make up your mind to stay ,
at home.' Oh, Mary, if I had never gone
to sea, perhaps she might have been alive
now/'

His father, who loved him as one would
love a darling son raised from the dead,
tried all he could to make him think he
had no reason to reproach himself ; but
William could never feel quite satisfied
that he had not been too negligent of his
mother's wishes.

He was married to Mary about six
months after his return. Her wedding
dress was of plain white muslin, and she
wore no other ornament than one natural
white rose in her hair. Those who observ-
ed the tasteful simplicity of her appearance,

WILLIAM BURTON.

and her quiet unaffected manners, proph-
esied that such a really modest girl would
make the best of wives ; and William says
they were not mistaken.

144

AUNT MARIA'S SWALLOWS.

A TRUE STORY.

" Petit a petit,
L'oiseau fait son nid." '

was in the spring-time of the year,

The latter part of May,
When two small birds, with mer-
ry cheer,
Came to our house one day.

I watched them with a loving smile,
As they glanced in and out.

And in their busy, chirping style,
Went peering all about.

I knew that they would build a nest;

And joy it was to me,
That the place they liked the best,

Beneath our roof should be.

145

In the crotch of a sheltering beam,

They found a cozy spot ;
And never before or since, I ween,

Chose birds a better lot.

The green boughs of a tall old tree

Gave them a pleasant shade,
While, through an arch, they well could s

Where sun and river played.

And here they came in sunny hours,
And here their nest they made,

Safe, as if hid in greenwood bowers,
For none their will gainsaid.

I think they felt a friendly sphere,
And knew we loved them dearly ;

For they seemed to have no thought of fear,
And planned their household cheerly.

They fanned me with their busy wings,

And buzzed about my head ;
Never were such familiar things

In field or forest bred.

The father was a gentle bird,
Right gracefully he wooed,
s 10 hi

146 aunt maria's swallows.

And softer notes were never heard,
Than to his mate he cooed.

And, when their clay-built nest she lined,

He'd go, in sunny weather,
And search and search, till he could find

Son.e little downy feather.

Then high would swell his loving breast,

He felt so very proud,
And he would sidle to the nest,

And call to her aloud.

And she would raise her glossy head,

And make a mighty stir,
To see if it were hair or thread,

That he had brought for her.

And she would take it from his bill,

With such an easy grace,
As courtly beauties sometimes will

Accept a veil of lace.

They did not know, the pretty things !

How beautiful they were !
Whether they moved with rapid wings,

Or balanced on the air.

aunt Maria's swallows. 147

And yet they almost seemed to know

They had a winsome grace ;
As if they meant to make a show,

They 'd choose their resting-place.

On a suspended hoop they'd swing,

Swayed by the buoyant air,
Or, perched on upright hoe, would si

Songs of a loving pair.

Swiftly as rays of golden light,
They glanced forth to and fro,

So rapid, that the keenest sight
Could scarcely see them go.

The lover proved a husband kind;

Attentive to his mate ;
He helped her when the nest was lined,

And never staid out late.

And while she hatched, with patient care,

He took his turn to brood,
That she might skim along the air,

To find her needful food.

He did it with an awkward hop,
And the eggs seemed like to break,

148

Just as some clumsy man would mop,
Or thread and needle take.

But there with patient love he sat,
And kept the eggs right warm,

And sharply watched for dog. or cat,
Until his mate's return.

And when the young birds broke the shell,

He took a generous share
In her hourly task to feed them well,

With insects from the ah\

But, when they taught the brood to fly,

'Twas curious to see
How hard the parent birds would try,

And twitter coaxingly.

From beam to beam, from floor to nest,

With eager haste they flew ;
They could not take a moment's rest,

They had so much to do.

For a long while they vainly strived,
Both male and female swallow ;

In vain they soared, in vain they dived,
The young ones would not follow.

aunt maria's swallows. 149

The little helpless timid things
Looked up, and looked below,

And thought, before they tried their wings,
They'd take more time to grow.

The parents seemed, at last, to tire

Of their incessant labors ;
And forth they went, to beg or hire

Assistance from their neighbors.

And soon they came, with rushing noise,

Some eight or ten, or more,
Much like a troop of merry boys,

Before the school-house door.

They flew about, and perched about,

In every sort of style,
And called aloud, with constant shout,

And watched the nest the while.

The little birds, they seemed half crazed,

So well they liked the fun ;
Yet were the simple things amazed

To see how it was done.

They gazed upon the playful flock,
With eager, beaming eyes,

150 aunt maria's swallows.

And tried their winged ways to mock,
And mock their twittering cries.

They stretched themselves,with many a shake

And oft, before they flew,
Did they their feathery toilet make,

And with a great ado.

Three times the neighbors came that day

To teach their simple rules,
According to the usual way,

In all the Flying Schools.

The perpendicular they taught,

And the graceful parallel ;
And sure I am, the younglings ought

To learn their lessons well.

Down from the nest at last they dropped,

As if half dead with fear ;
And round among the logs they hopped,

Their parents hovering near.

Then back again they feebly flew,
To rest from their great labors,

And twittered a polite adieu
To all their friendly neighbors.

AUNT MAHIA'S SWALLOWS. 151

Next day, they fluttered up and down :

One perched upon my cap ;
Another on the old loose gown,

In which I take my nap.

Each day they practised many hours,
Till they mounted up so high,

I thought they would be caught in showers.
And never get home dry.

But when the sun sank in the west,

My favorites would return,
And sit around their little nest,

Like figures on an urn.

And there they dropped away to sleep,
With heads beneath their wings.

I would have given much to keep
The precious little things.

But soon the nest became too small,

They grew so big and stout ;
And when it would not hold them all,

They had some fallings out.

Three of the five first went away,
To roost on the tall old tree ;

152 AUNT MARIA'S SWALLOWS.

But back and forth they came all day,
Their sister-kins to see.

My heart was sad to find, one night,

That none came back to me ;
I saw them, by the dim twilight,

Flock to the tall old tree. 41

But still they often met together,

Near that little clay-built nest ;
'Twas in the rainiest weather

They seemed to like it best.

Yet often, when the sun was clear,

They'd leave their winged troops,
Again to visit scenes so dear,

And swing upon the hoops.

Just as when human beings roam,

The busy absent brother
Loves to re-visit his old home,

Where lived his darling mother.

Months passed away, and still they came,

When stars began to rise,
And flew around our window pane,

To catch the sleepy flies.

153

Into our supper-room they flew,
And circled round my head ;

For well the pretty creatures knew
They had no cause for dread.

But winter comes, and they are gone

After the Southern sun ;
And left their human friends alone,

To wish that spring would come.

154

LARIBOO.

SKETCHES OF LIFE IN THE DESERT.

* ARIBOO lived in Af-
*i&# rica, in the country
of the Tibboos, which
lies east of the great Des-
ert of Sahara. A large
part of that country is a
plain of sand ; and the
soil is so salt, that in
many places it is cracked open. In the
cavities thus formed are suspended beau-
ful crystals of salt, like the delicate frost-
work we see on the windows, in a cold
winter morning. But in these parched
places are little green spots, called oases ;
and in one of these lived Lariboo. The
verdant valley was well watered by
springs ; there were plenty of the delicate
berries of the suag shrub ; the creeping
vines of the colocynth bore an abundance
of blossoms ; and the kossom, with its red

FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN-

LARIBOO,— rasrs>167

LARIBOO. 155

flowers, looked as gay as a May-day queen.
—-Small herds of graceful gazelles fed in
this pretty retreat ; the faithful domestic
camels might be seen in hundreds, re-
clining at their ease, or patiently carry-
ing their heavy load of salt to the market
of Mourzook ; and beautiful bright birds
darted about, like flying rainbows, filling
the air with cheerful songs.

Lariboo was very happy in this lovely
valley. True, her daintiest food was cam-
el's milk, and a little ground millet ; and
she lived in a small mud hut, which we
should hardly think good enough for the
cows. But it is better to live in a mud
hovel, with a kind heart and a cheerful
temper, than to live in a palace, selfish
and discontented. Lariboo was of an af-
fectionate disposition, and she had a hus-
band and baby that she loved very much.
She thought the baby was extremely pret-
ty ; though it had bits of coral stuck through
its ears, and black wool, that curled all o-
ver its little head, as close as Brussels car-
peting. Next to the baby, she loved two
tame gazelles, with great brown mild-
looking eyes. They came every morning
to feed out of her hand, and share her cal-
abash of camel's milk.

156 LARIBOO.

The Tibboos are a good-natured merry
race, extravagantly fond of singing and
dancing. Lariboo was reckoned quite a
belle among them. I don't suppose you
would have thought her very good-look-
ing, 'if you had seen the oil streaming over
her face, coral passed through her nose,
and broad brass rings on her arms and
ancles. But she thought herself dressed
very handsomely ; and I do not know why
it is considered more barbarous to bore the
nose for ornaments, than to pierce holes
through the ears, as our ladies do. As for
the dark tint of her complexion, it would
be considered beautiful by us, as it was
by the Tibboo beaux, if we had been ac-
customed from infancy to see all our friends
of that color. The Africans, who never
see white men, or see them only as enemies5
who come to carry them into slavery, con-
sider the European complexion ghastly
and disagreeable. When they describe
the spirit of wickedness, usually called the
Devil, they always paint him as a white
man.

It is singular that the Tibboos should be
so merry and thoughtless as they are ; for
they are constantly exposed to danger.
West of their country live a fierce and ter-

LARIBOO.

157

rible tribe, called Tuaricks. They hate
the Tibboos ; and once or twice a year
they come down among them, to kill or
carry into slavery every one they meet.
The Tibboos are very much afraid of them.
When they hear them coming, they run
and hide themselves among steep rocks,
from the summits of which they hurl stones
and spears at their enemies. These Tua-
ricks are a wandering race of robbers, with
flocks and herds, and they consider it very
disagreeable to live in houses and cultivate
the ground. They are the only native Af-
ricans who have an alphabet. They have
neither books nor paper ; but their strange
letters are found inscribed all over the dark
rocks of their country.

One day, when Lariboo was out in the
fields, picking snag berries, and talking to
her baby, who was slung over her back,
and lay peeping its black eyes over her
shoulder, she heard the frightful cry, " The
Tuaricks are corning ! The Tuaricks are
coming !,; She ran as fast as she could, to
hide among 'the rocks ; but the Tuaricks
caught her, and carried her off to sell her
for a slave. Many others were killed, or
taken prisoners. In the hurry and confu-
sion of the fight, Lariboo could not get

158 LARIBOO.

sight of her husband ; and she did not
know whether he were dead or alive.

The poor woman sobbed as if her heart
would break ; but the savage invaders did
not pity her. They drove the prisoners
along before their camels, and if they did
not go as fast as they were ordered, they
whipped them cruelly. Day after day,
they continued their wearisome journey
without any hope of escape from these
cruel conquerors. The Tuaricks had heard
of a large caravan of Arabs encamped near
Bournou, and thither they intended to
carry their prisoners and sell them.

Sometimes they passed through little
verdant valleys ; but in general their route
lay through wide barren deserts, with no-
thing to relieve the dreary monotony of the
scene, but here and there a black rock, that
reared its gloomy head above the heaving
sand. This sand, put in motion by the
wind, forms .high perpendicular hills in
the course of a single night. The camels
are made to slide down these drifts ; in
which operation they can only be kept
steady by the driver hanging with all his
weight on the tail ; otherwise, they would
tumble forward, and throw the load over
their heads.

LARIBOO. 159

Every few miles, there were skeletons
of poor negroes, left in the desert to die,
when there was not food enough for them
and their masters. Near springs of water,
they several times saw fifty or sixty dead
bodies lying together unburied. The bones
were very brittle, owing to the heat and
dryness of the climate ; and as the camels
of the Tuaricks passed along, they Would
crack them into fragments beneath their
feet.

Poor Lariboo thought this would be her
fate. Many of her countrymen had died
on the way ; and before she had been a
fortnight in the desert, the sufferings she
underwent from hunger and thirst made
her extremely weak and dizzy. One day,
she begged to rest a little ; for she was so
weary and lame, that she could not keep
up with the camels. The cruel Tuaricks
snatched her baby from her, and threw it
on the hot sand, telling her she would not
be so tired if she had no load to carry.

The poor child was very ill, and the
wretched mother shrieked and screamed,
and begged to be allowed to carry it again;
but the more she sobbed and wept, the
harder they beat her. Weary, lame, and
heart-broken as she was, she was compel-

160

LARIEOO.

led to keep up with the camels, and leave
her baby to die.

The mournful wailing of her little one,
as the savages threw it on the sand, soun-
ded in her ears all day long. In the despe-
ration of her misery, she hoped that she too
would soon be left to perish in. the burning
wilderness. Toward night, the Tuaricks
were terrified by the sight of several pro-
digious pillars of sand moving across the
desert : sometimes with majestic slowness,
and sometimes with incredible swiftness.
These pillars are whirled up and kept in
motion by the wind. They are sometimes
so very high that their' tops are lost in the
clouds. Sometimes they break suddenly
in the middle, and fall ; at other times
they seem to melt away and disperse in
the distance, like vapor. They are very
terrible, when they come stalking, like
great shadowy giants, across the silent des-
ert.

The Tuaricks watched these columns
with great anxiety, as they came rapidly
toward them. There was no use in at-
tempting to escape. An Arabian horse, at
his swiftest speed, would not have kept a-
head of them. The wretched Tibboo pris-
oners looked on the approaching destruc-

LARIBOO. 161

tion without any additional feelings of des-
pair. They were weary of life ; and they
thought it would be better to be buried in
the sand than sold for slaves. Poor Lari-
boo was even afraid the pillars would dis-
perse before they reached her. " I shall
be at rest beneath the sand," thought she ,
" and perhaps the same wind that buries
me in the desert, will cover my poor baby."
The magnificent columns came sweep-
ing on ; they approached nearer and near-
er ; and at last rushed upon the travellers,
burying dozens in their rapid course. La-
riboo was among the number overwhelm-
ed ; but it chanced that the sand rested
lightly on her face, so that she had the
power of breathing. The force of the
blow stunned her, and rendered her insen-
sible. The Tuaricks, thinking her dead,
left her where she fell. How long she re-
mained stupified, she knew not. When
she recovered consciousness, the painful
glare of the mid-day sun had given place
to the mild beauty of evening. The mo-
tion of the blowing sand sounded, in the
deep stillness, like the murmuring of a
mighty river ; the moon and stars shed a
soft clear light from the cloudless heaven ;
in 11

162 LARIBOO.

and the breeze swept along with refreshing
coolness.

When Lariboo first recovered her senses,
she did not realize where she was. She
tried to rise, but found herself kept down
by a load of sand. She looked around her.
All was calm and bright in that wide des-
ert, which, like the ocean, seemed to stretch
its flat surface into infinite space. All was
still — so intensely still ! Not a bird, not
an insect, disturbed the deep repose. La-
riboo was all alone in that vast silent wil-
derness !

Her first sensation was joy that she had
escaped the power of the Tuaricks ; but
the next moment she was filled with fear.
She remembered that she was without food,
and many days' journey from any human
habitation. Then came the thought of li-
ons and panthers, and hyenas, more dread-
ful than all. She knew that the last men-
tioned of these terrible animals were al-
ways prowling about in the night, seeking
for the dead ; and her heart fainted with-
in her, at thoughts of her deserted babe.

She strained her eyes, gazing into the
far distance, in every direction, to see if
danger was approaching. But nothing
was in motion. The earth below was as

LARIBOO. 163

still as the heavens above. By degrees,
this profound quiet produced drowsiness ;
and Lariboo, overcome by excessive fatigue
and exhaustion, slept soundly and sweetly,
forgetful of solitude, starvation and terror.

.She was awakened by the pitiless rays
of the sun, shining full upon her, with the
intolerable ardor of a tropical climate. —
With considerable exertion, she released
herself from the sand, under which she
was buried. The prospect around her was
dreary and hopeless in the extreme. Far
as the eye could reach, stretched an end-
less level of sand, without bush or tree.
Here and there, glassy particles sparkled in
the sunshine, lilte polished steel. Not a
cloud floated in the dazzling sky. Not a
breeze stirred the surface of the desert.
The earth and the heavens seemed on fire ;
and where they met at the horizon, there
appeared a fine glittering line of light, like
the sharp edge of a scimitar.

Lariboo wished to return to the spot
where her babe had been thrown the day
before. But in the desert it is often ex-
tremely difficult, even for skilful guides to
find their way. There are no objects to
serve as land-marks for the eye or the
memory. The light sand is so easily blown

164 LARIBOO.

about, that no tracks remain in it : and the
high steep hills that are thrown up by the
wind in one night, are scattered before the
next. The only way she could guide her
steps, was by observing the sun, and bear-
ing in mind that theTibboo country lay to
the north. All day long, she pursued her
dreary journey with languid and weary
steps. Not a shrub nor a fountain could
she find, and she was dying with hunger
and thirst. Had it not been for a faint
hope of rinding her babe alive, she would
probably have lain down and made no fur-
ther exertion to save life. She passed sev-
eral human skeletons, but saw nothing of
her poor little infant.

The sun was setting, and with it depart-
ed the last glimmering of hope from the
heart of poor Lariboo. Utterly discourag-
ed, and too weak to drag herself along,
she laid herself down on the sand to die.

She had not remained there many min-
utes, when a dark speck in the air hovered
before her languid eye. As it came nearer,
she saw it was a gold-shafted cuckoo. The
sight of this bird at once renewed her cou-
rage. She knew that an oasis must be
near ; for birds never live in the desert,
where there are no trees, berries, or insects.

LARIBOO. 165

This idea, by reviving her mind, impar-
ted temporary strength to the perishing
body. She rose and pursued her journey
to the westward, from which quarter the
bird had first come in sight. She was not I
mistaken in her hopes. A little verdant
spot soon appeared amid the waste, like a
green island in the ocean. Here the almost
famished traveller quenched her thirst at
a little rill, and feasted upon delicious ber-
ries. But, alas, this charming oasis made
the mother's heart very sad ; for she was
certain she had never seen it before. This
fact proved that she was out of her path,
and not likely to find the body of her child.
Her only comfort was the thought that the
poor little creature must by that time be
relieved from suffering by death.

Having taken food, and reposed herself
a few minutes on the grass, Lariboo began
to look round, to see what she could dis-
cover in her lonely resting-place. A group
of trees attracted her attention, and thith-
er she directed her footsteps. The cool
shade was extremely refreshing ; and af-
ter having wandered all day long in the
desert, without meeting a single living
thing, even a solitary fly, it was a real de-
light to watch the bright birds fluttering

v

166 LARIBOO.

about, to hear the monkeys chattering, and
see them throwing down nuts and boughs
from the trees.

Having found a little clump of date-J
palms on a rocky knoll, and plenty of ber-j
ries, she resolved to stay in this charming]
place a day or two to recruit her strength J
She put her arms round a date-tree, and
kissed it, and wept like a child. She had
been so long accustomed to the unshaded
sands of the desert, that a tree seemed to
her like a long-lost friend.

At a short distance from the cluster of
date-trees, the wanderer discovered a cave,
or grotto, formed by overarching rocks.
Being worn down with fatigue, she enter-
ed it, stretched herself on the cool earth,
and sank into a profound slumber. It was
past midnight when she waked ; and great
fear came upon her, when she heard the
powerful, breathing of some animal near
her. Was it a lion, a panther, a hyena,
or the disgusting and fierce ourang-outang?
In vain she tried to conjecture from the
sound of its breathing ; and the grotto was
so dark, that she could distinguish nothing.

Once or twice, indeed, as the moon glan-
ced through crevices, she thought she dis-
covered two great sparks of fire, which

LARIBOO. 167

might be glaring eyes. But no motion was
heard, and the animal breathed as if asleep.
Lariboo was, of course, thoroughly wak-
ened for the rest of the night. The slight-
est noise made her hair rise with terros,
and her eyes felt as if they were starting
from their sockets.

When the light of morning dawned, it
revealed a huge panther lying near her.
The great creature slept with his head be-
tween his paws, as comfortably as an old
house-dog by the fire-side. Lariboo's heart
beat, as if it were flying from her body.
She was afraid to make any effort to es-
cape ; for she could not gain the entrance
of the grotto without stepping over the
body of the savage beast ; and should she
wake, it was highly probable that Lariboo
would serve her for a breakfast.

It was some encouragement to observe,
that the panther's mouth and paws were
covered with blood. " She will be less
fierce if she be not hungry," thought La-
riboo ; " her stomach being already full,
perhaps she will have the goodness not to
eat me up, at present. ; and in the mean-
while I may possibly escape."

Then she thought of her infant exposed
on the sand ; and the blood on the pan-

168 LARIBOO.

ther's jaws made her head dizzy and her
heart sick.

But even in the midst of her anxiety
and distress, she could not help admiring
-the beauty of this magnificent animal. —
Her legs and throat were covered with
pure white hair, extremely soft ; black cir-
cles, like velvet, formed pretty bracelets
for her paws ; her tail was white, with
broad black rings ; and the hair on the
rest of her body was of a bright golden
yellow, shaded with rich brown spots.—
She lay stretched out in quiet majesty, her
paws folded under her nose, and her long
smellers, like silver threads, waving gent-
ly, as she breathed in her deep slumber.
A maltese cat, reposing on an ottoman,
could not have appeared more graceful.

Had it not have been for the intense fear
with which Lariboo watched for the open-
ing of her fiery eyes, I dare say she would
have thought the panther even more beau-
tiful than her favorite gazelles.

At last, the powerful animal awoke.- —
She stretched out her paws, shook herself,
and washed her neck and ears, as prettily
as a kitten. Lariboo's blood ran cold, and
her heart seemed to drop down like lead.
She did not dare to breathe. The panther

LARIBOO. 169

was quite unconscious of the presence of
company, until she turned her head to
wash the hair on her glossy sides. She
instantly stopped her operations, and fixed
an earnest gaze upon the trembling woman.
Their eyes met. Extreme terror some-
times affects one like the night-mare, and
takes away all power of word or motion.

Lariboo felt as if she would rush any
where to avoid the gaze of this terrible
creature ; but she could not even take her
eyes away. The panther put one paw on
her arm, and they stood eye to eye, as if
neither could possibly look elsewhere.

The human eye, when it looks directly
and steadily into the eye of an animal, has
a fascinating power, which seems almost
like the stories told of magic. Probably
this mysterious influence restrained the
panther in the first moment of surprise.

As she stood there thus, quite still, Lari-
boo recovered her habitual boldness and
presence of mind. She raised her hand,
patted the panther on the neck, and gently
scratched her head. All animals like to
have their heads rubbed, *and the panther
was evidently pleased with it. Lariboo,
encouraged by this gracious reception ot
her friendly advances, stooped down and

170 LARIBOO.

breathed into her nostrils, caressing her the
while ; for she had heard the hunters say-
that human breath, thus inhaled, is the su-
rest way of taming a wild beast. But,
like putting salt on the tail of a bird, the
difficulty is to get near enough to do it.

The panther manifested a decided lik-
ing for the courageous woman. Her eyes
gradually softened in expression ; she began
to wag her tail like a joyful dog, and purr
like a petted cat. Her purring, to be sure,
had not much resemblance to the gentle
murmur puss makes when she is pleased ;
it was so deep and strong, that it sounded
much more like a church organ.

Lariboo was very glad to gain the good
will of her formidable companion. She
redoubled endearments, from an instinctive
wish to avoid the present danger, though
she had very little hope of ultimate escape.
" Her stomach is full now," thought she ;
" but doubtless she will eat me up, as soon
as she is hungry."

She rose, and prepared to leave the grot-
to. The panther made no opposition to
her movements* but followed her like a dog.
Lariboo having eaten a few dates for break-
fast, threw some to her companion ; but
she smelt at them, and turned away with

LARIBOO. 171

cool contempt. As they walked along,
they came to the group of trees, where our
traveller first rested, when she arrived at
the oasis. The monkeys made a great
chattering at sight of the panther. One of
them was at a little distance from the
others, digging in the ground for worms.
He made great haste to scamper up a tree,
but the panther caught sight of him, and
at one bound caught him in her tremend-
ous jaws. Lariboo trembled as she heard
the monkey's bones crack. "I am safe
for a while longer," thought she ; u but
what will become of me, when she is hun-
gry, and can find no monkeys to eat?"

The panther, having finished her meal,
put her bloody paws upon Lariboo's lap,
and rubbed her head against her shoulder,
as if asking for caresses. Terrible as the
creature was, the woman really began to
feel an affection for her ; for love causes
love ; and when one is all alone in a wide
desert, the company of a well-behaved
panther is better than utter solitude.

For many hours Lariboo leisurely saun-
tered about, collecting dates, nuts, &c. by
which she hoped to sustain life while wan-
dering through the desert. While thus
employed, she heard the loud cher ! cher !

172

LARIBOO.

of the moroc, a small cuckoo, called the
Honey-guide. Lariboo knew the sound
very well ; for she had been used to hunt-
ing wild bees, and was very expert at get-
ting their honey. She followed the cuc-
koo, until it stopped at an old tree, in the
decayed trunk of which she found a wild
bee's hive. Lariboo had a stout battle with
the bees, and after she had killed them,
she made a delicious dinner of the honey ;
taking care to leave plenty enough for her
winged guide.

This cuckoo is a cunning little creature.
He cannot kill the bees himself, but when-
ever he sees a human being, he begins to
cry cher ! cher ! that they may follow him
to the hive, and get the honey for him.

There is a small grey and black animal
called a Ratel, which follows the cry of
the Honey-guide, and digs up the nests of
the wild bees with its long claws.

The panther never lost sight of her new
friend. Sometimes she wandered away for
a few minutes ; but she soon came bound-
ing back, rubbing against Lariboo, as if
asking to have her head scratched. The
weaker party of course deemed it safe to
treat the stronger with distinguished atten-
tion ; and their friendship seemed to in-

LARIBOO. 173

crease every minute. The panther looked
on the taking of the bees' nest with great
indifference. It was an affair she did not
understand ; and if she had, she probably
would have had great contempt for those
who loved honey better than raw mon-
keys.

Lariboo, having gathered her honey, sat
down beside a large thorn-bush to rest her-
self. The thorns on this bush were stuck
quite full of locusts, beetles, and little birds.
Some of them were all dried up ; others
were still alive on the thorns. These crea-
tures had been taken by the butcher-bird ;
so called, because when he captures an in-
sect or a bird smaller than himself, he car-
ries it to his bush and sticks it on a thorn,
that he may always have a dinner ready,
when he wants one. As Lariboo sat there
making a strong basket of palm-leaves, to
carry the honey she had gathered, the pan-
ther lay at her feet, watching her move-
ments. At last, her eyes began to close :
for she was getting very drowsy. " Now
is my time to escape," thought the African.
"As for going through the desert with such
a ferocious companion, it is out of the ques-
tion. True, we are very good friends now

174 LARIBOO.

but hunger will certainly change her feel-
ings toward me."

When she thought the mighty animal
was sound asleep, Lariboo stole softly and
swiftly away. For nearly twenty minutes
she ran along as fast as her nimble feet
would fly. She was just beginning to think
she might safely pause to take breath,
when she heard a great noise behind her.
It was the panther, which came bounding
over the ground, taking the enormous leaps
peculiar to the animal. As she came up
with the runaway, she seized hold of her
cotton mantle with her teeth ; but she did
it with a gentle force, as if in play. La-
riboo patted her head and smiled, and the
panther began to purr and wag her tail.
It was plain enough that she had taken a
very decided fancy to her new comrade,
and was determined to remain with her,
whether her company was desired or not.
The woman, finding escape impossible, re-
solved to do her utmost to preserve the at-
tachment thus singularly formed.

She was anxious to return to the Tibboo
country, and her strength being sufficient-
ly recruited, she resolved to leave the oa-
sis, as soon as the sun went down. She
preferred to travel in the night, because it

LARIBOO. 175

was so much cooler than the day ; and she
was in quite as much danger of wild beasts
while staying in the oasis, as she would be
in the open desert. Having provided her-
self with as many nuts and dates as she
could carry, she began her journey. The
panther trotted along by her side, like a
great Newfoundland dog ; sometimes leap-
ing a great ways ahead, then stopping un-
til she came up ; at other times jumping
and curvetting, and rolling over in the sand,
as if she were in a great frolic.

It was a beautiful sight to see these two
strange companions travelling along through
the desert, where every thing else was so
very still. Not even the wings of a bird
ruffled the air. The wilderness stretched
itself out in every direction to the utmost
verge of the horizon. As the breeze play-
ed lightly with the sand, it rippled and tos-
sed like the gentle heaving of the ocean in
a calm. The resemblance to the ocean
was made still more strong by glassy par-
ticles of sand, that glittered in the moon-
beams, like sunshine on the* water.

Toward morning, Lariboo laid down to
take some rest,before the sun rose to scorch
every earthly thing with his burning rays.
The panther folded up her paws, and soon

176 LARIBOO.

began to breathe sonorously, in a profound
slumber. They had been sleeping for some
time, when Lariboo was suddenly waken-
ed by the noise of a tremendous scuffle.
She sprang on her feet, and perceived by
the light of the stars that some furious an-
imal was fighting with the panther. The
awful sight made her dizzy and faint, and
she fell back in a swoon. When conscious-
ness returned, the panther was standing by
her, licking her hands affectionately with
her great rough tongue.

The morning light revealed part of the
carcase of a great striped hyena, lying on
the sand. Lariboo caressed her faithful
friend with enthusiasm. " My dear pro-
tector, had it not been for you," she said,
"this terrible beast would have devoured
me while I was sleeping." She actually
wept, as she fondly stroked the beautiful
glossy hair of the superb animal.

All that day they travelled without see-
ing any thing that had life. "It is lucky
you had a hyena for breakfast," said
Lariboo, as she patted the panther's head;
11 otherwise you might be tempted to eat a
friend."

During the succeeding day, the power-
ful beast tasted no food. Her playfulness

LARIBOO. 177

ceased, her eyes glared fiercely, and she
began to make a deep mournful noise. In
this emergency, Lariboo no longer felt safe
in trusting to her affection. Though over-
come with fatigue, she could sleep only by
short and fitful snatches, so great was her
fear.

The panther disappeared in the night,
and did not return during the following
day. The thought that they had parted
forever made the lonely traveller extremely
sad. . But just at sunset, she heard the
well-known cry, which she had learned
to love most heartily. The panther came
bounding along, at his usual speed, spring-
ing high from the earth, and clearing the
ground faster than the swiftest race-horse.

No dog was ever more joyful to meet
his master, than she was to rejoin Lariboo.
She rubbed her sides against her friend, and
purred, and seemed as if she would never
be satisfied with caresses.

Lariboo was equally delighted to meet
the creature that loved her so strangely
and so well. Her happiness was not a lit-
tle increased by perceiving that her jaws
were bloody. She had evidently obtained
the food, of which she went in search ; and
in. 12 ww

178 LAKIBOO.

it was now obvious that nothing short of
absolute starvation would tempt the fierce
brute to make a meal of her beloved com-
panion.

In the utter loneliness and eternal mo-
notony of the desert, the sight of any-
harmless living thing is an indescribable
joy to the weary traveller. Even the flight
of a little bird, far up in the clear atmos-
phere, is watched with the utmost eager-
ness. Under these circumstances, the af-
fectionate attentions and graceful gambols
of the panther were a constant source of
delight.

The fact of receiving her love as a vol-
untary and most unexpected tribute, and
the consciousness of being entirely in her
power, rendered the pleasure of this strange
friendship more intense and exciting. —
Without it, Lariboo would not have kept
up sufficient strength and spirit to sustain
her through her weary wanderings.

It was more than a fortnight before the
travellers entered the Tibboo country. —
During that time they met with two oases,
where Lariboo stopped to gather nuts and
berries, and refresh herself with water.
In one of these places, she had great fun
with the monkeys, pelting them with small

LARIBOO. 179

stones, while they, in their rage for imita-
tion, threw clown nuts in return.

Occasionally they met a clump of date-
trees standing all alone in the desert. These
singular and valuable trees often grow in
a parched soil, where all around is barren.
Within the bark is a sweet nourishing sub-
stance, called the marrow of the date-tree ;
the fruit is cool, juicy, and refreshing ; the
young leaves are very good food ; the old
ones, when dried, are made into mats and
baskets ; and the branches are full of strong
filaments, which are manufactured into
ropes and coarse cloth. The sight of them
in the desert is peculiarly cheering ; not
only on account of their own manifold
uses, but because they always indicate that
water is not very far ofT. No wonder the
Africans love their date-tree !

The panther continued to be an invalu-
able travelling companion ; a playmate by
day, and a guard by night. The African
tribes sometimes dig deep ditches in the
desert, to entrap their enemies. Being
lightly covered with sand, they are danger-
ous snares to the unwary traveller ; and
Lariboo fell into one of them. The pan-
ther, seeing she could not extricate herself,
seized hold of her braided girdle, as a cat

180 LARIBOO.

does with her kitten, and at one bound
placed her in safety. She was a little
bruised by the rough strength of her deliv-
erer, but not otherwise injured.

The woman fared better than the faith-
ful brute. She could live on very little
food, and she carried her mantle full of
dates and berries. But both the travellers
suffered much from hunger during their
long journey. The panther was once so
raving, that she seized her companion vio-
lently by the leg ; but her teeth did not en-
ter the flesh, and a few caresses made her
relent. Lariboo felt then that death was
not far off; and at times she felt very will-
ing to die. She was famishing herself, and
it was plain that the panther could not
much longer endure the pangs of hunger.

But a different ending of her troubles a-
waited her. They were close to the con-
fines of a country, which here and there
presented a solitary hut. A large antelope,
chased and caught by the panther, satis-
fied her hunger, and she was again affec-
tionate. Lariboo likewise found a few ber-
ries, to keep life in her almost exhausted
frame.

She was afraid to enter any of the huts,
lest she should encounter enemies of her

LARIBOO. 181

tribe, and be carried to the sea-coast to be
sold into slavery in foreign lands. But a-
bout three hours after the death of the an-
telope, she espied a hunter, with bow and
arrow. The panther saw the same sight,
and darted forward to seize him. But the
hunter was very expert ; and as the terri-
ble animal raised herself to spring upon
him, he shot her directly in the throat with
a poisoned arrow, and then laid himself
flat upon the ground. The panther, in her
dying agony, cleared his prostrate body at
one leap, and after a few convulsive bounds,
she rolled powerless on the ground.

When Lariboo came up, the beautiful
but terrible creature fixed a mournful lov-
ing look upon her, and tried to lick her
hand. Lariboo would have given any
thing to have saved her life. When she
was dead, she sobbed like a child who had
lost a favorite dove. " My guardian of the
desert," she exclaimed, " you saved my
life ; you protected me from the fury of
your own species ; but I could not save
you from mine." She smoothed the rich
glossy hairs of her dead favorite, and wa-
tered them plentifully with her tears.

The hunter thought her conduct very
strange . but when she told how the pan-

182 LARIBOO.

ther had loved her, and watched over her,
and refrained from harming her, even
when she was very hungry, he no longer
wondered at her grief. But he convinced
her that the fierce animal could not possi-
bly have gone far with her into an inhab-
ited country ; because if she were hungry,
she would attack any human being she
happened to meet.

" It was lucky for you," said he, " that
you happened to gain her affections, while
her stomach was full. If she had been
fasting, when you took possession of her
cave, it would have done but little good to
caress her."

Lariboo knew very well that the pan-
ther would not have been a safe travelling
companion in any inhabited country ; but
she could not help weeping whenever she
thought of the remarkable friendship they
had formed for each other. She remained
several days at the hunter's cabin, to rest
and recruit herself, and then departed on
the route which he told her would lead to
Bilma, the capital of the Tibboo country.

It is a mean little town, with mud walls,
and derives its importance solely from the
numerous salt-lakes around it ; salt being
the most valuable article of commerce in

LARIBOO. 183

Africa. The warlike Tuaricks come to
these lakes, load whole caravans with salt,
and undersell the Tibboos in all the mar-
kets ; yet the timid Tibboos have so long
been in the habit of considering them mas-
ters, that they do not dare to say a word.

At Bilma, Lariboo found a caravan of
Tibhoo traders going to Mourzook. Under
their protection she reached her home in
safety, and found her husband alive and
well. Her wonderful adventures served
for many an hour of gossip ; and some of
the Tibboo poets made songs about the
panther, and sang them, with the banjo
for an accompaniment.

She gave such a fascinating account of
the oasis where she first met her superb
four-footed friend, that her husband per-
suaded twenty or thirty of his neighbors
to go there with him to reside. " Lariboo
says we shall find plenty to live upon,"
said he ; " and as it lies far from the route
between Mourzook and Bornou, we shall
be safely out of the way of the tyrannical
Tuaricks."

They accordingly removed thither with
twenty camels, and the two tame gazelles.
Lariboo never knew what became of her
babe ; but probably its little bones whi-

184

LAK1B0U.

tened and crumbled in the desert. The
skin of the panther hung in her hut to
the dav of her death.

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